The Haunting Of Travis Marks
by EFAW
Summary: When Travis bought the house on 7000 Dallas Avenue, no one mentioned his unexpected roommate. Ghost!AU. Oneshot.


**Summary: **When Travis bought the house on 7000 Dallas Avenue, no one mentioned his unexpected roommate. Ghost!AU. Oneshot.

**Warnings: **Ghost!AU, so paranormal activity of the supernatural kind. Some blood and violence. Character death (Sort of, it all happens fifty years before the events of the story so I'm not really counting it). Wesvis.

**Disclaimer: **I neither own nor am affiliated with Common Law in any way.

**This was inspired by a post made by mizufallsfromkumo on tumblr. **

**I swear to god this was supposed to be just a cute little ficlet about a ghost. It then exploded all over the place. Sorry about that.**

**Many thanks to my beautiful beta **theempathymachine,** who was willing to read the whole thing again and again over the course of many months. Much love to you, sweetie!**

**I hope you enjoy it!  
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**OOOO**

**The Haunting Of Travis Marks**

"_True love is like ghosts, which everyone talks about and few have seen."_

—_Francois de La Rochefoucauld_

**XXXX**

The house is perfect.

It's a little L-shaped rambler with a finished basement. It's got three bedrooms, one of which is currently in use as an office, a bathroom with an Olympic-size tub, a dining room he's probably never going to use, and a huge open kitchen-living room area that would be perfect for having family over. The two-car garage is more than enough to fit his bike, and while the backyard is a little overgrown, it's big enough for that dog he always dreamed of getting and it has a wonderful maple tree in the corner.

Sure, it's got some problems. The hideous wallpaper in the office looks like it hasn't been changed since the house was built. The front porch sags at one end, and the shed in the back is a firetrap. He keeps walking through cold spots, the electricity flickers all over the place, and he's pretty sure there's a nest of raccoons in the attic.

But those are all things Travis can deal with, and he's got a ton of foster siblings he can rope into cheap labor. The bones of the house are good, the kitchen was remodeled so everything is shiny and new, and the master bedroom has this gorgeous decorative crown molding that looks incredibly fancy.

It's perfect. It's exactly the sort of house he dreamed about when he was a kid, with enough room for a child or two if he ever bothers to settle down.

Best of all, it comes completely furnished. Everything in the house stays in the house. Since Travis is coming from a trailer with limited furniture, this is practically a godsend.

He wants it.

"How much?" he asks, looking through the French doors at the backyard. He tries not to get his hopes up; this neighborhood is already above his budget, and he was very clear that he _could not_ go over his budget.

The realtor pushes her glasses up her nose and names a price. It's over his budget. Travis's face falls.

"But I think we can get it for your price," Marissa says eagerly, and Travis's hopes stop their descent. "The house has been on the market for over a year, so the owners are eager to get rid of it. Plus, there are some repairs that need to be done, like the porch, so we can ask for a reduction for repair costs in the offer. If we work this right, we should be able to get it below your max budget."

Travis takes a breath, staring at the maple tree in the back, and thinks about it. He thinks about living here, in this perfect little house, settling down and making a life for himself with a dog and maybe a kid and a wife.

This is the home he's always dreamed of. He must have it.

He turns and flashes her his most charming grin. "I want it. Make it happen." He clasps her shoulders with his hands, squeezing for solidarity. "I believe in you."

This is going to be his house. He can feel it in his bones.

**XXXX**

The owners are so eager to get rid of the house, they accept Travis's offer in less than ten hours, even though it's nearly ten grand below asking price. That's a warning flag, and Travis is not stupid; he makes sure to get an inspection first.

His foster brother Josh walks through the house, hemming and hawing, and Travis waits with baited breath. When Josh finally finishes up, Travis bites his lip and asks, "What's the verdict?"

Josh looks down at his notes. "Well, the porch will have to be fixed before it can be used. The sagging is caused by a damaged support beam, it's not structurally sound. Something's going on with the electricity. My readings say the wires are fine, but the lights shouldn't be flickering like this, so you may want to rewire the house in the next year or so. You've got damp in the basement, but no mold, which is lucky, and there are indeed raccoons living in the attic. There's a handy little hole in the roof where they climbed in from the tree."

At Travis's dejected look, Josh beams and claps his arm. "But the house is in really good shape, all things considered. The foundation is sound, the walls are good, and the heat and water work perfectly." He looks around the living room, nodding to himself. "Most of the repairs are easy enough to fix. If you want the house, I think you should say yes."

Travis says yes.

The owners practically throw the keys at him at the signing. And okay, that's a little weird, but Travis has Josh's word that nothing is too horribly wrong with the house, so he doesn't think too much on it.

His hands are shaking a little when he opens the front door.

_His_ house. This is _his_ house.

He takes a step inside, breathes in the scent of his new home, and feels the smile practically break his face in two.

"Honey…I'm home."

Yeah. It's _perfect._

**XXXX**

To celebrate his housewarming, he goes out, gets delightfully tipsy, and picks up a girl. They're both giggling as they stumble their way to the bedroom, and Travis keeps pawing the walls and telling her, "This is _mine_, this is all mine, I have a _house_ now."

They fall on the bed in a tangle of limbs, quickly divesting each other of their clothes. Travis nips his way along her shoulder as Lindsey –Lori? something with an 'L', he thinks—shivers.

"It's really cold in here," she announces, goosebumps rising on her arms. Travis feels a shiver run down his spine too as one of the icy drafts skates across his skin. He grins into her collarbone and says, "I know a way we can warm up."

She squeals and drags him under the covers, and things proceed from there.

**XXXX**

Travis jerks awake in the middle of the night, hand pulling his gun from the bedside table and pointing it straight in front of him, aimed at the foot of the bed.

There's no one there.

After a long minute, Travis lowers the gun, running his hand over his face. The back of his neck is still tingling. It's a sensation he's felt a thousand times on the job; someone was watching him, and it was a decidedly hostile gaze, sharp enough that it yanked him out of a sound sleep.

A dream. It must have been a dream. There's no one there.

Maybe he's still dreaming. He can still feel the glower on his neck.

Lorraine –Lacy, Leila, whatever—murmurs in her sleep and snuggles into the pillow. Travis shakes his head and puts his gun back in the drawer.

It was just a dream. Nothing to worry about. He's had worse.

**XXXX**

The first thing he does is rope some of his foster brothers into fixing the porch with him and helping him remove the raccoons from the attic. It takes three days and he pays them in beer and pizza. All in all, it's a job well done.

The second thing he does is unpack his stuff. This takes another few weeks, because while he doesn't have a lot of stuff, he does have a job he works long hours at. It gets in the way.

The third thing he does is plan a party.

**XXXX**

In true Travis Marks fashion, the housewarming party is not _just_ a party; it is a three-day extravaganza of foster moms and siblings trailing in and out of his new home. Travis leaves the door unlocked and resigns himself to a bunch of gifts he doesn't really need (because seriously, throw pillows? What purpose do throw pillows serve? Though he is grateful for the new set of dinnerware one foster mom gives him).

Over the course of the weekend, he meets the neighbors. There's Peter and Dakota, a cheery couple who both have the same curly brown hair and bright brown eyes. They live two houses down and are trying for a baby, and they love all of the kids running around Travis's yard. The Dumonts live in the green house with the cheery yellow trim, and they're the nicest old couple Travis has ever met. Clyde and Rozelle live next door; they get into a full-on screaming match Friday afternoon, but they've made up by Saturday morning.

And then there's Dr. Emma Ryan, the shrink who lives directly across the street. She comes over on Sunday morning, and Travis is understandably wary when he learns her profession. He's had far too many shrinks poking through his head over the years, the last thing he wants is to _live_ next to one. Emma just laughs gently and says, "My main profession is couples counseling, so unless you have relationship problems to work through, I promise to try and keep my psychoanalyzing to a minimum," and Travis likes her for that.

Even some of his coworkers stop by. Kate and Amy bring him a potted plant, some sort of mini cactus, "Because not even you should be able to kill a cactus, even if you only water it twice a week," and Kendall gives him one of her old computers and helps him set it up in the office. Randi doesn't bring a gift, but she comes over with Hudson and Travis spends ten minutes rolling around in the grass with the dog, so it counts. Even Jonelle stops by with a scowl on her face, thrusting a gift card in his face. "This is not from me," she says, "It's from the entire office, and if you use it to buy something stupid I'll poison your coffee."

All in all, it's a great weekend, and Travis can easily ignore the dark looks he feels on the back of his next when no one is there.

**XXXX**

When Travis wakes Monday morning after the party, he expects to have at least a full day of cleaning. He'd been attempting to stay on top of it all weekend, but things sort of got away from him Sunday night, and he knows there was a mess when he went to bed.

Except when he comes out, the place is absolutely clean.

Travis stares at his living room and goes, "Huh."

Trash has been piled neatly by the garage door, separated into recyclables and everything. All of the dishes and silverware are lying on a towel by the sink, spotless and sparkling brightly. When he looks in the fridge, all of the food has been carefully stacked, not a wasted space between containers, like the most delicious game of Tetris ever. The ugly throw pillows, which he'd been planning to quietly donate to Goodwill, are arranged decoratively on the couch, and the cactus Kate and Amy gave him is sitting dead center on the coffee table.

Travis did none of that. He was a little drunk last night, but he wasn't so blackout drunk that he would forget going on a massive cleaning spree. He decides that one of his foster moms must have done it before leaving last night. It's the only thing that makes sense. He'll have to make sure to thank them all.

He grabs one of the containers from the fridge and heats up the mini bacon-wrapped weenies for breakfast, leaving the Tupperware on the counter as he eats. Halfway through, he glances out the window and groans.

The inside of the house may be spotless, but the backyard is a mess of beer bottles, paper plates and silverware, and dropped food. Travis finishes his breakfast with a sigh and dumps the dishes in the sink, going to grab a trash bag.

At least two hours later, as he's lugging the last of the trash to the garage, he remembers the food he left out on the counter. Only, when he turns to put it away, he finds it gone. Not gone, he corrects, _put away_, tucked back into place in the fridge. And his breakfast dishes have joined the ranks on the counter, clean and sparkling.

Travis stares at the kitchen. "What the hell?"

The lights flicker.

**XXXX**

On Tuesday, he finds his bathroom is organized with almost obsessive tidiness. The porcelain tub _gleams_, and all of the stuff he'd shoved in the medicine cabinet has been straightened out.

On Wednesday, someone's moved his gun. Just a fraction of an inch, like someone pulled it out of the drawer and put it back in _almost_ the same spot. As he picks it up, he can feel that angry glare pointed at the back of his neck again.

On Thursday, he conducts an experiment. He makes spaghetti, dirties three pans and two plates, and drops a Tupperware container on the ground. He feigns annoyance, throws up his hands, and storms out.

After sitting in a bar for two hours and drinking nothing but soda so he has no excuse, he comes home and the kitchen is spotless. The pans and dishes are in the cabinets, the floor has been cleaned of sauce and noodles, and the air is ice cold.

On Friday, he gets out of the shower and nearly has a heart attack when he sees letters on the steam-covered mirror. Like someone ran a finger over the glass.

_You're a slob._

On Saturday, he decides he has a ghost.

**XXXX**

"I'm sorry, you have a what? Repeat that for me again?"

Kendall looks way too amused. Travis scowls and crosses his arms. "I have a _ghost_."

"A ghost." She sounds serious enough, but her lip curls at the corners and he's pretty sure she doesn't believe him. Not that he can blame her. If he hadn't seen the evidence for himself, he wouldn't believe it either.

He puts his foot on her chair and shoves her, annoyed at her amusement. "Yes. An annoying, obsessive, neat-freak of a ghost. He keeps _cleaning _my stuff. It's kind of a pain in the ass. I mean, I'm not a _slob _or anything. I keep my stuff neat. I don't need someone coming along and touching everything I own. I'm really not as messy as he's making me out to be."

Kendall rolls her chair back to her desk, tucking one foot underneath her. "How do you know it's a male ghost?"

Travis shrugs. "It's a feeling. I just know, okay. Can you help me?"

One slim eyebrow goes up. "What do you want _me_ to do about it?"

"Don't suppose you happen to know any exorcisms?"

"I could look some up."

"Sure." Travis huffs a sigh and dangles his head over the back of the chair. "Can you look up the history of the house? I've seen enough ghost-hunting shows to know you have to figure out the ghost's identity before you can get rid of it."

"Yeah, gimme just a sec…" Her fingers tap away, and within moments there's a triumphant sound. "Here we go. Oh, that's weird."

He looks up, craning his neck to peer at her computer. "What?"

"Check this out." Kendall swivels the monitor. "Since it was built in 1957, 7000 Dallas Avenue has never been lived in for more than a year. The record seems to be the original owners, with a grand total of fourteen months."

Travis frowns. "That doesn't make sense. The people I bought the house from owned it for at least a year and a half."

"But they didn't _live_ there." Kendall scrolls down the page. "See, look. They only lasted two months before buying another house across town. Place has been on the market ever since."

"Alright," Travis concedes, "That sounds a bit ghosty." He leans forward. "Has anyone died in the house? Violently. Violent deaths make ghosts."

"Let me see…" More typing, and a few screens pop up, scans of death certificates. "I've got records of four people dying in the house. Gary Brucknell, November 2001, died of old age."

"Nope, not that one," Travis says, "no ghost hangs around after dying of old age. _Violent_ deaths, Kendall."

"Alright. Here's Clarissa and Nicole Lemont, July 1994. Mother and her newborn, drowned in the bathtub."

"Ooh." Travis peers at the screen again. "Accident or suicide-murder?"

"Looks like it was ruled an accident, but it could be either."

"Okay, that's a possible. Keep going."

"James Murphy, May 1979, hung himself in the living room."

"Another possible."

Kendall types a few more lines into her computer, then sighs. "I don't have anything before that."

"What?" Travis sits up, peers at her computer screen. "Why not? It was built in '57. You're saying no one died before 1979?"

"I'm _not_ saying that, Travis. I'm saying there's no record of anything before 1979." Kendall sighs. "Look, we're still scanning paper records into the computer system. Anything before the seventies or mid-sixties is going to be on paper." She swivels to face him. "I can look it up, but it's going to take a while. Slogging through paper records is always a pain."

"How long is a while?"

Kendal shrugs. "I don't know. A couple of weeks? Maybe more."

Travis doesn't like that. "Why so long?"

She gives him a look. "Because I have actual work to do, as do you, you know. And, like said, paper records." She pauses and gives him a grin. "You could always look it up on your own. I could point you in the right direction."

"No, no, a couple of weeks is totally fine. Yeah." He stands and gives her a thumbs up. "Lemme know when you find anything."

Kendall just rolls her eyes and gives him a playful shove. "Go on, get out of my space. I'll contact you when I have something."

Which is great and all, but, "What am I supposed to do in the meantime?"

Kendall gives him another look. "About what?"

"About the _ghost_, Kendall. Remember? I have a ghost in my house?"

She's wearing her _Boys are so stupid_ face, which always feels like something she wears around him a lot. "I don't know. Deal with it. Or move into a hotel. It's your house, and it's your ghost."

"Thanks, Kendall. That's really helpful. You have no idea."

She just laughs, and he's grinning a little when he walks out.

**XXXX**

Travis pauses on the front stoop and takes a deep breath. "Deal with it," he mutters under his breath. "Yeah, that's great advice, thanks a lot, Kendall."

But, since it's the only advice Travis has, he girds himself and walks inside.

"Hello?" he calls. "Mr. Ghost?"

The air is still. The house is silent.

Travis waits.

He figures the best thing to do to 'deal with it' is to just introduce himself and lay his intentions on the line. If he ignores the fact that the other presence in his home is a _ghost_, this is kind of like living with a roommate. Travis has had _plenty_ of roommates in his life, he can deal with another one, no matter how incorporeal.

"Are you there?"

Not even the lights flicker.

Travis sighs and rolls his eyes. "Come on, that's stupid. I know you're there. You haven't exactly been subtle the last few days." He turns in a circle in the living room. "Seriously, the silent treatment? What's that about?"

Still nothing.

Another sigh. He puts his hands on his hips. "Well, whatever. Since I know you're there, I'll just do this." He forces a half-hearted smile on his face, the one he wears when he's meeting people he doesn't really like all that much but it's not polite to be rude to them. "Hi, I'm Travis Marks. I live here now."

A cold breeze brushes his neck. Travis doesn't shiver, and he doesn't smirk in triumph. _I knew you were here._

"And I intend to keep living here," he continues. "So I don't care how many lights you flicker at me, or how cold you make the room, or how much you glare at me disapprovingly. I'm not leaving. This is _my_ house."

This is the first house Travis has ever owned, the first home he's had that's permanently, purely his. He's not going to leave just because it's haunted.

"Also," he raises a finger, turning and scowling at the wall. "I'm not a slob. I'm actually pretty neat. You just have unhealthy expectations about cleanliness."

That sharp glare Travis associates with the ghost is leveled at his head. Travis frowns. "Don't be like that. It's true. By most standards, I'm incredibly neat. You're just a perfectionist."

The glare doesn't abate. The light over the TV flickers.

Travis rolls his eyes. "Whatever. I just wanted to introduce myself and get that out of the way. So. You know. There you go." He turns and heads to his bedroom.

It's probably his imagination that he thinks the glare on the back of his neck turns a little less hostile and more thoughtful.

**XXXX**

Travis is nothing if not adaptable. It comes from his background, moving from foster home to foster home. He learned very quickly that nothing was permanent, and if he couldn't adjust to the changes, he would have broken apart a long time ago.

And he's no stranger to sharing with others. He's been living on his own for years now, but he grew up sharing his bedroom, his closet, his stuff with other kids.

He finds it surprisingly easy to adapt to a ghost.

It could be worse. The ghost isn't hurting him or threatening him. He's just _there_, always present in the house even if Travis can't sense him. Sometimes Travis will feel that sharp gaze on the back of his neck, especially when Travis does something completely heinous like leave his shoes lying about or drape his jacket over the back of the couch instead of hanging it up. That's when the air gets _really_ cold.

Really, it's a bit like living with a pet. An invisible, sometimes annoying pet who likes to clean and mucks about with the electricity.

Travis _has_ always wanted a dog.

It only takes a few weeks for Travis to become sort of fond of his incorporeal roommate.

**XXXX**

The ghost, on the other hand, doesn't adapt as easily to living with a human. Or maybe he just doesn't like the fact that Travis isn't freaked out about this. He gets more annoying.

Now, instead of flickering the lights and giving Travis cold disapproving looks, the cabinets bang when he leaves his jacket on the back of the couch or he kicks his shoes off by the door. Once, when Travis swears he'll get to the dishes in the sink but doesn't immediately get up from the couch, the ghost throws the remote at his head, which kind of pisses Travis off because the batteries fly out and he has to spend fifteen minutes looking for them.

"Look," Travis finally says, "I am not leaving. It's just not happening. You can do whatever the hell you want, but I'm not going. So you might as well get used to it, you stubborn bastard."

A couch cushion comes up and whaps him in the side of the head. Travis isn't sure if it's because the ghost doesn't want him here, or because of the accidental insult to his parentage. Note to self; don't call the guy a 'bastard' until he knows more about the ghost.

**XXXX**

Days pass. The ghost continues to be annoying, but he's not hostile. Travis can live with that. He's lived with worse.

Travis wonders if this is how it went for the other owners. If they decided to weather the storm and keep living here, until the unseen presence just got too annoying and they left. Or maybe something happened and the ghost snapped and went full poltergeist like on those paranormal investigative shows, which can be absolutely mind-blowingly terrifying, Travis is sure.

With this thought in mind, Travis makes half an effort. Every few meals, he bothers to rinse the dishes and start the dishwasher (which the ghost never uses, Travis thinks that's amusing), or he'll remember to hang his jacket up when he gets home instead of tossing it over the nearest surface. He doesn't always remember, but he doesn't always forget, either.

And the ghost just sort of…lets him stay.

**XXXX**

When Kendall calls him up, he thinks it's about the Druer case he's working on. It is, sort of; she gives him the phone log of the victim with names attached, which is exactly what he needs.

Then she pushes a stack of papers at him.

"What's this?"

Kendall gives him her annoyed face. "The records of deaths in your house. Remember? For your ghost problem?"

"Oh! Right!" The Druer case can last a few minutes without him. He pulls up a chair and starts flipping through the records. Kendall leans over her shoulder.

"I only found three deaths prior to 1970. There was Mark Anderson, in 1968. He broke his neck when he fell off the roof while replacing shingles. It was ruled an accident."

"Okay." Accidental deaths aren't usually the sort of thing that creates ghosts, Travis knows enough ghost stories, but it could happen.

"June Dreymond, February 1962. Another case of old age."

"No. I told you, _violent_ deaths make ghosts."

"And lastly, Wesley Mitchell, March 1958, shot in his home during a break-in."

Travis sits up, nearly pushing her off his shoulder as he stares at the death certificate in front of him. "That's it. This is him."

"How can you be sure?"

"Because it fits." He holds up the death certificate, waving it in the air. Kendall gives him a dirty look; he ignores it. "The house was built in 1957, so he must be the original owner. And you said it, no one since has lasted more than a year. This guy was murdered, so he's hanging around the homestead, scaring off anyone who moves in. Does he have any surviving relatives? Any kids or a spouse?"

Kendall turns to her computer, type-type-typing away. After a minute of searching, she pulls up a page from an old newspaper. "You have no idea how happy I was when they started scanning all the newspapers at the library into their database," she says, flipping to the obituary for March 1958. "Here we go. Wesley Mitchell, 35, survived by his wife, Alexandra Mitchell _née _MacFarland."

There's a picture accompanying the obit. Wesley Mitchell stares out at the camera with a stern look on his face, mouth and eyes tight around the edges. It's not the best picture in the world—seriously, they couldn't have found one of the guy _smiling?_—but it seems to fit with the personality of the ghost in his house.

He stares at the photo on the computer and swears he's felt that same gaze on the back of his neck.

"Can you get me the contact info for Alex MacFarland?"

"Travis…" Kendall looks at his face and sighs, shaking her head. "Fine. It'll take some digging, though. Fifty-five years is a lot of info to get through, especially if she's remarried or changed her name." She gently pushes him away from her computer, opening up a new search screen. "I can have it to you in a few days. A week tops."

"Seriously? More time?"

"Travis, I've already slogged through _paper records_ for you. I'm in _digital _forensics. Seriously, you should be grateful I went this far."

"Yes, yes, I am so grateful," he backpedals, because the last thing he needs is to make Kendall mad at him. She's one of the few women in the precinct he hasn't alienated, and he doesn't want to get her pissed at him.

Besides, if she gets mad, she can probably hack his email so all his outbound messages say 'Man-whore' or something. There's no telling. She's got a tough core under that sweet face. "Anything you can find, in whatever time limit you need, that's great."

She quirks her lips and turns back to her computer. "Glad we've got an understanding." There's a pause while she types at her computer and Travis looks at Wesley Mitchell's death certificate, and then she says casually, "So what's it like?"

"Hmm? What's what like?"

"Travis." She gives him an exasperated look. "You know. What's it like, living with a ghost?"

"It's…" He thinks about it. "It's not…horrible. It definitely could be worse. Remember how I said he was, like, a complete neat freak? At first, it was like, cool, I go out, I come back, dishes are done. But now he slams cabinets if I leave dishes in the sink and blows air like ice down my shirt if I don't hang up my jacket. I'm _not_ as much of a slob as he's making me out to be." He pouts, crossing his arms over his chest. "He's just obsessive."

Kendall chuckles. "Well, glad to see you're getting along."

He rolls his eyes. "I wouldn't exactly say we're 'getting along'. He's kind of a pain in the ass." After a second, he shrugs and admits, "But, he's not the _worst_ roommate I've ever had, either, so, you know."

"Well, alright then." She pats him on the knee, then gives him a light shove. "I'll get back to you when I can on Alex MacFarland-Mitchell. Now you, go back to work."

"Alright, alright, I'm going already." He gathers the phone records for the Druer case, then snags the death certificate as well. "Talk to you later."

"Just _go_ already!"

He laughs and swaggers out feeling confident.

**XXXX**

In the interim, Travis tries to learn more about Wesley Mitchell. He spends half a day at the library, going through microfiche newspapers, hunched over the machine and sneezing as dust tickles his nose.

There's not much in the papers. From what he can gather, Mitchell was a practicing lawyer for only a few years before he died. Pretty hotshot, too, from the looks of it. Still, aside from a few articles about cases won and one announcement for the Mitchell-MacFarland engagement in the society pages, there just isn't much here.

So Travis decides to do the next best thing: ask the source directly.

He borrows his foster niece's Ouija board, takes the proper precautions (because he is not stupid, he's seen how these movies go and he's not ending up like that, thank you very much), and on a Friday night, instead of going out to find a casual hook-up, he settles cross-legged on the living room floor.

"So," he says conversationally to the air, "this is a Ouija board. In case you didn't know. It'll help me talk to you."

The light above the TV flickers. Annoyance. That was definitely annoyed flickering there.

"What you do is _not_ conversation, bud, that's just angry mutterings and old man grumblings. Aside from one really rude message on my bathroom mirror, you haven't actually _said_ anything to me. That would require actually talking. Although anytime you wanna just show yourself and start chatting, feel free."

He waits. Aside from his breath as the air gets steadily cooler, nothing manifests. Travis shivers a little, pulls his jacket around him (as said, he's seen these movies; he came prepared) and settles his hands on the wooden…pointer…thing.

"Okay," Travis says, settling in for the long haul. "Let's do this." He pretends to think about his first question, though he's known since the day Kendall called him up what it would be. "Hmm…are you the ghost of Wesley Mitchell?"

The pointer does not move one inch.

Travis groans. "Come on, you stubborn bastard, I know you're there. You might as well do this with me, I'll keep pulling out the board until you do." He jiggles the pointer encouragingly. "Come ooooon…"

A frigid breath of wind blows past his ear, like the long-suffering sigh of someone who's resigned himself to perpetual annoyance. Travis waits, staring at the air opposite him, like if he stares hard enough he can see the shape of the man lingering in his home.

The pointer moves beneath his hands.

Startled, he looks down. Then a slow grin forms when he sees where the pointer is aimed.

_YES._

_I knew it, ha, so there, Kendall_, he crows victoriously in his head. She said there was no way to know for certain, but Travis has always trusted his gut and it hasn't led him wrong yet.

"Nice to meetcha, Wesley," Travis chirps, grinning at the empty spot in front of him. "Wesley. Kind of pretentious, don't you think? How about Wes? Can I call you Wes?"

The pointer shudders under his fingers again. _NO_.

Travis ignores it completely. "So, Wes, since we're going to be rooming together until one of us decides to leave, I figured we should get to know each other. Sounds like fun, right?"

The pointer trembles in his hands but doesn't go anywhere, still lingering on _NO_.

Travis ignores that too. He's finally got a way to talk to his invisible roommate, he's going to utilize it, dammit. "I looked up a little bit about you. I know you were a lawyer, back in the fifties. I know you had a wife. And then you died." Travis stares down at the board. "You want to talk about it?"

Another shake of the pointer. _NO_.

"Dude, you're a ghost lingering in my house over fifty years after you died. I think maybe you _should_ talk about it."

_NO. NO. NO._

Travis purses his lips. "You know, I'm not a huge proponent of therapy, but sometimes talking it out really _does_ help. Might give you some closure and get you _out of my house_, you know? Just saying."

_NO._

And, well, that one, Travis isn't really sure if Wes is denying the idea of therapy or the thought of leaving the house and moving on. But according to every TV and movie ever made, it's not good for ghosts to linger so long. And Travis has been through enough therapy that he knows it does, _occasionally_, help to talk things out. Sometimes.

But Wes clearly doesn't want to get into that right now, so Travis sighs and moves on, because there's no point pushing a ghost. Wes clearly has the chops to outstubborn him—he's stayed dead in his home for _fifty-five years_, he's got this one in the bag.

"Alright, sometimes else then," Travis says jovially, because dammit, he can be a good sport. "What sort of things do you like? Music? Movies? Reading?"

_NO._

A scowl tugs at Travis's mouth. "Is that the only word you know?"

_NO_.

"Oh, hardy har." Travis runs a hand through his hair. "Look, man, I am trying to be a good sport here, okay? This is my olive branch. You might as well take it. Rooming with complete strangers is no fun at all, believe me, I know."

_NO_.

"Wes—"

The pointer jerks out of his hand. Travis is so surprised he startles back, watching the pointer zip across the board, one letter to the next, so fast he almost has trouble spelling the words.

_I-D-O-N-T-W-A-N-T._

"Don't want _what_, man?"

_I-D-O-N-T-W-A-N-T-Y-O-U. _

_I-D-O-N-T-W-A-N-T-T-O-K-N-O-W-Y-O-U._

_I-W-A-N-T-Y-O-U-G-O-N-E. _

_L-E-A-V-E-M-Y-H-O-U-S-E. _

_L-E-A-V-E-M-E-A-L-O-N-E._

_G-O-A-W-A-Y._

Travis stares at the board. "Dude, you've been alone in this house for fifty-some years. You really don't want someone to just…talk to? Hang out with?"

_N-O-I-W-A-N-T-Y-O-U-T-O-G-O-A-W-A-Y._

Something clenches in Travis's chest, something like annoyance but a little like sympathy too. Because he knows what that's like, being alone for so long that the thought of friendship hurts. But he also knows that Wes has been alone here for _fifty-five years_, chasing away anyone who's ever lived here, constantly on his own, and that…

"Don't you get _lonely_?"

That's the saddest thing in the world.

The pointer trembles on the board. Travis waits, baited breath, watching to see where it moves next, but it doesn't go anywhere, it just sits in the center of the board and shakes.

There's an explosion of air and the Ouija board flies across the room, slamming into the wall and narrowly avoiding flying out the window. Travis yelps, ducking behind the coffee table on instinct, though he still has the presence of mind to holler, "Watch it, that's my niece's!"

The air stills. And then it goes warm, which is usually a pretty damn good sign that the ghost has left the immediate area.

Carefully, Travis crawls out from behind the coffee table. He waits for a moment, just in case, but there's no sign that Wes is still in the area.

Sighing, Travis crosses the room and bends to pick up the board. Well, _that_ was an epic failure. So much for getting to know Wes.

He's so distracted by the poor outcome to this little venture that he doesn't notice the pointer landed on top of the board, pointed to the answer to his question.

_YES._

**XXXX**

"I think I pissed him off," Travis says a few days later, slumping in the booth at the bar.

"Who?" Kendall asks, plunking a pitcher of beer and two mugs on the table. "Captain Sutton?"

"No. Well, maybe," Travis decides, because there's a very good chance he's done something lately to piss his captain off. "No, I mean Wes."

Kendall frowns absently, flipping through the menu. "Who?"

"_Wes_," Travis says in exasperation, because really, how could she forget? "My _ghost?_ You know, the one living in my _house?_"

"Oh. Right." _Now_ Kendall seems interested, even putting down the menu to look at him. "What'd you do?"

"_Nothing!_" Travis pours himself a mug, downing half in one go. Dammit, it's not like _everything_ is automatically his fault. "I was just trying to talk to him, get to know him. Next thing I know, the board was flying across the room." He pouts at his beer. "It was a heavy board, too. Wood. Left a dent in my wall."

Kendall pauses with her mug halfway to her lips, staring at him with one eyebrow raised. "Board?"

"Yeah. Board. As in Ouija." Travis waves a _no big deal_ hand.

Kendall continues to stare at him. "Ouija board? Are you an idiot? I don't even believe in ghosts and I know that's a dumb idea."

"I took precautions," Travis defends. He did. He's not a complete idiot, he knows there are certain things you don't do when it comes to spirits, and as such he knows to avoid them. "I'm not stupid, you know."

"Says the guy who used a Ouija board to talk to the ghost in his home," Kendall says disbelievingly. "Because _that_ always ends well."

"Aside from a dent in my wall, I'm here and fine, aren't I?"

She leans back in her seat. "Fine. You're not a _complete_ idiot, I'll give you that. So. Your ghost is mad at you."

Travis nods, glad to be back on track again. "Yeah, I think so. He's _ignoring_ me, Kendall. I dropped a full plate of mac and cheese on the floor last night and the lights didn't flicker. Not once."

"Sounds…frustrating?" she asks, like maybe she's not sure if it is or not.

"You wouldn't think so," Travis grumbles into his drink. And it's true, he thought he'd be more than happy to be rid of the pesky annoyance bothering him all the time, but now that it's been _days_ he's finding he actually kind of misses the snarky presence. It's a pain.

Scowling, Travis downs the rest of his beer and pours himself another. "And I don't know enough about him or what happened to know why he's so pissy." He eyes Kendall over the lip of his mug. "Did you find Alex MacFarland yet?"

"Not yet."

"Why not? You said it'd be a week, but it's been like ten days."

"Be_cause_, Travis." Kendall gives him a sharp, admonishing look. "This is a _side_ project, and I have a real job. We're swamped right now with the Vasquez case. Most of the digi guys have been roped into helping Cyber Crimes." She takes a sip of her beer. "I'll get it to you, I will, but I don't know when. As soon as things ease up a little."

That's as good as it's gonna get so Travis takes it. "Fine. But what am I supposed to do in the meantime?"

The digital tech shrugs. "Make up with him."

"No way, I _never_ would have thought of that." Travis feigns shock briefly before scowling—at his mug, because he knows better than to scowl at Kendall. "_How_ am I supposed to do that, genius? I usually bring flowers or chocolates when I piss people off."

Kendall gives him a look.

"Okay, _girls_, when I piss girls off. But it's not like flowers or chocolates will do much here, even if Wes _was_ a girl. He's a _ghost_."

"So get him something else. Music. Everyone likes music, even a ghost can appreciate that."

"What kind? We didn't get that far in the conversation."

His friend rolls her eyes. "This is really not that hard, Travis. Get a variety. He'll let you know what he likes."

"Yeah, I guess."

They're almost through the pitcher when Travis says, "But he's a ghost. Doesn't that, like, mess with electricity? How's he gonna work a CD player? Does he even know what a CD player is for?"

"Oh my god, you are just having an intensely stupid day, aren't you?" Kendall rolls her eyes so hard he can almost hear it. "Do I have to do _everything_ for you?"

"You are my go-to for relationship advice," Travis points out.

"True." She sighs. "If you're worried about electricity, then get, I don't know, a record player. Acoustic. I'm sure you can find one easily enough."

Travis stares at her. "You…are a genius."

"Damn straight I am." She knocks back the rest of her beer, nudging the empty pitcher in his direction. "And since you're being so helplessly annoying, the next one's on you."

**XXXX**

On Sunday, Travis lugs a small table into the house, setting it beside the couch. He sets a canvas bag on the floor by the coffee table and heads back outside. When he returns with a bulky box in his hands, there's a questioning brush of wind against his cheek.

He refuses to admit he gets excited about the first sign of (un)life he's seen(felt) from his incorporeal roommate since the Ouija board incident. But he is. Maybe. A little.

"This is a record player." Travis carefully sets the box on the couch and opens it up. The gramophone inside is a little scuffed, but it still works. He grins and cautiously sets the record player on the table. It's a perfect fit.

The light flickers. Travis translates it as _'Why did you buy a gramophone?'_

"It was only fifty bucks at the garage sale, and it came with ten records." Travis points at the bag on the floor and smiles a little.

This time he reads the light flickering as exasperated inquisition. That's the nice thing about communicating with flickering lights and breezes. Travis can pretty much interpret them however the hell he wants.

"It's for you."

The flickering stops.

Travis shrugs, picking up the bag of records and flicking through them. "I figure it's gotta be pretty boring around here all day, right? I mean, you don't seem to watch TV much, and the only way you'll fill your time cleaning is if I make a mess every day before I go. Yeah, yeah, I know how you feel, I won't do that, ease up on the Arctic winds." He shuffles through the records, pulling out various discs and setting them on the coffee table. He pretends like this isn't the sappiest thing he's ever done. "I didn't know what you'd like, but there's an assortment here, so if you prefer a band or genre or whatever, let me know and I can find something similar."

Travis doesn't do apologies, not out loud. But from what he can tell, Wes was a pretty smart guy when he was alive. He should be able to figure out Travis's motivations here.

And, well, he's not exactly _lying_. Fifty-five years stuck in the same house has _got_ to be boring as sin.

He waits for a reaction.

There's nothing. No lights, no air.

Travis's head comes up. "Hey? You, uh, you still there?"

The sudden flurry of wind that circles him takes him by surprise. Travis starts, hand going automatically for his hip, but the gusting doesn't seem to be aggressive. Travis just isn't sure _what_ it is.

The wind rustles over the records on the table, then comes sweeping over him again, ruffling his clothes and running through his hair. There's a decidedly positive vibe in the air, and Travis throws all his detective skills at deciphering what's happening here—

Oh. Okay. Right.

"You, uh, you're welcome." Travis hopes he sounds less sheepish than he feels. He tucks his thumbs in his belt loops and smiles at nothing. "I'm glad you like it."

**XXXX**

That night, Travis accidentally drops a garbage bag and spills recyclables all over the kitchen floor. Wes doesn't bang a single cupboard.

**XXXX**

In the morning, Travis hears the gramophone start up as soon as he locks the door, the sound of smooth jazz audible even on the porch.

Travis grins all the way to work.

**XXXX**

Kendall stops by while he's working his way through a burrito as big as his head and drops a folded piece of paper on his desk. "Word of advice, don't mention the ghost of her dead husband when you call her."

Travis grins at the paper and replies, "I'm not _that_ stupid."

**XXXX**

No, Travis is not that stupid. He is, however, incredibly determined.

He searches every inch of the house. The roll top desk in the office looks like it's circa 1950-something, so he goes through every drawer and cranny, ignoring the chilly breeze gusting down his spine. He crawls into the attic, looking for boxes or crates. He digs through some of the stuff in the garage, because he inherited a bunch of stuff from the old owners that he hasn't had a chance to go through yet.

Unfortunately, most of the furnishings are new, and he finds nothing. That just leaves…the basement.

The basement is small, and dark, and wet because he hasn't gotten around to fixing that damp yet. Travis waves his emergency flashlight around, peering at the gloomy corners.

"This is way spooky."

His flashlight flickers. Travis lets out a gust of breath. "Oh, come on, don't do that. I'm trying to _help_ you, here. Don't leave me in the dark." Because this is the sort of basement that serial killers live in, and while Travis is pretty sure he doesn't have a serial killer living in his basement, he's watched too many horror movies in his life and he has an active imagination.

(And okay, he's trying to help _himself_ mostly, by kicking Wes out of his house, but in the process that should help Wes too, because moving on is good for ghosts. Or something. Wes should be _grateful_ Travis is doing this, absolutely grateful here.)

The flashlight beam steadies.

"Oh," Travis says, surprised, because so far most of what he's gotten from the ghost has been annoyance and slamming cabinets. The bouts of Wes being nice are so rare and far between he's not really used to it. "I don't suppose you want to help point me in the right direction?"

The only sound is a faint _drip-drop_ in one corner. Not even a ghostly breeze.

Travis sighs and keeps moving. "Yeah, I didn't think so."

In the end, he spends forty minutes down there and finds nothing. Which actually, if he thinks about it, isn't that surprising. If there _had _been something down there to find, Wes probably would have thrown a tantrum right there in the basement.

But Travis can't end up with nothing. He can't just call up his ghost's old wife like a creeper without _some _excuse. He needs _something_, any small tiny thing.

"Don't suppose you've got something squirrelled away, huh?" he asks the ceiling.

His flashlight flickers disapprovingly. Travis sighs. "Of course not."

Which leaves just one place left.

**XXXX**

The shed is a deathtrap. Travis stands outside it for an entire ten minutes, debating whether he should actually venture inside or just kick it down and search through the rubble. Wes can't venture into the yard, and without the ghost's tender loving care, the years show.

"If this thing caves in on me," he grumbles towards the house, "I'm totally coming back and kicking your ass, Wes." There is no response from the house, no flickering lights or twitching curtains, but Travis feels better about it.

The door squeals open like the worst horror movie cliché ever. Travis winces and takes a breath and enters the tetanus shot waiting to happen.

It's a tiny shed, like, smaller than the bathroom. There are a couple of rickety shelves and cabinets, a rusty old hoe and rake leaning companionably together, and a lawnmower that reminds Travis that the lawn is looking a little overgrown and he really ought to get on top of that.

Moving gingerly, and honestly afraid to touch anything in case things start falling apart, Travis rolls up his sleeves. "Alright," he tells himself. "Time to get to work."

The shed is small, and there's not much there. It doesn't take him any time to find a metal box, tucked behind a toolbox that looks almost new. The metal box is black, and it feels empty, but when he shakes it gently something rattles inside.

It's also locked, but that's never stopped him before. He scampers out of the wooden deathtrap and sits on the back porch, too far for Wes to throw things at his head if this is really something precious. With a bit of fiddling, the lock pops, and he eases rusty hinges open.

Inside are letters, each packed in its own little envelope, spotted with age and water. But each envelope is carefully addressed to Alex Mitchell, and he grins when he sees it.

Perfect.

**XXXX**

_Dear Alex_, the elegant, curling script reads, _I miss you. This conference is incredibly boring. I've heard three speeches, and every single one talks about things I already knew…_

Travis swallows and carefully folds the letter back into the envelope. The words are dry, but he can feel the adoration in every handwritten word. There are some things that are too intimate for even Travis to go through.

He places the envelope back in the box and heads inside. He is not immediately assaulted, but he can feel the ghost's gaze on his back, watching him as he gently places the box on the coffee table and steps away.

"I'm going to go out for a bit," he calls, grabbing his jacket off the back of the couch and heading for the door. "I, uh, figured you might to look through those."

There's a whisper of wind as turns to the door, and the rustle of papers. Travis doesn't look back, because if he does, it might all disappear.

**XXXX**

When he comes back from the bar, the box is sitting on the coffee table where he left it. The letters inside have been shuffled around, and the air in the room is kind of cold, and sad.

Travis lets out a breath and wishes for another drink.

**XXXX**

_Travis dreams._

_He stands in his living room in jeans and a t-shirt. Around him moves a wind, gentle but curious, tugging at the hem of his shirt, sliding over his arms, his face, his hair._

_If he closes his eyes, he can almost imagine hands, cool to the touch, sliding over his skin, gently exploring. It's strangely not weird at all. _

_Ghostly fingers wrap around his neck, but before he can become afraid, they move, gliding over his jawbone. Thumbs meet on his chin, then slide upward over his lips, following the curve of his smile. He can feel palms cupping his cheeks, fingers tracing the lines of his eyebrows._

"_Are you lonely?" he whispers, recognizing the motions for what they are. Desperation. Despondency. Need. Nothing sensual or sexual at all. Just a basic affirmation for touch simply to know he's not alone in the world._

_The invisible hands trail down his face, across his neck, over his shoulders. Breath moves past his ear, a whispered word on the wind. "Yes…"_

_He doesn't open his eyes, because that would break the spell. He reaches out, lets his hands rest on hips that are diaphanous to the touch._

"_I'm not going anywhere," he assures, with all the certainty in the world. It's a declaration of intent, a promise to commit. It should have him running for the hills. It should terrify him._

_It doesn't._

_The touch vanishes. Completely leaves him, and he feels cold and bereft. But he hears the voice, low and sharp and angry, hurt hidden behind bitterness._

"_You will. They always do."_

"_I won't," he swears. "I'm lonely too."_

_And it's the most honest he's ever been, admitting the truth. He's always been alone, ever since he mother left him on the stoop of a firehouse, alone even when he's surrounded by people or pressed against another's flesh, and it's a horrible feeling and he would never wish it on anyone, would never make someone else feel the way he does _all the time_—_

_There's an almost thoughtful pause, and he can feel eyes on him, watching and a little curious. He doesn't open his own eyes. Not yet. The spell isn't broken yet._

"_I don't believe you," the voice whispers finally, moving past him, moving _through_ him and tearing at the empty hole in his chest._

_Travis opens his eyes, and nothing is there._

Travis wakes, and lets out a breath, wallowing in the remains of his dream. He turns on the light and sits up, as though the illumination will be enough to dissipate the empty darkness in his chest. There's nothing in the room; he wasn't expecting to see anyone, but he's still a little disappointed.

"Wes?" he whispers to the empty room.

The light flickers, just once, and he nods.

"Okay. Great. Okay."

He leaves the light on when he lays back down. It doesn't make it any easier to fall asleep, but every so often, it will flicker, and that makes him feel a little better.

A little less alone.

It still takes a long time to get back to sleep.

**XXXX**

"Mrs. Alex Kinsey? Formerly Alex MacFarland-Mitchell?"

"…Yes?"

"Hi. My name is Travis Marks. You don't know me, but, um, I bought your old house."

"Which one?"

"7000 Dallas Avenue."

Silence.

"And, um, I know this is sort of out of the blue, but I found this box, and it's got some papers and letters and things, and I just…I wanted to know if you wanted it?"

A long pause. "A box of letters, you said? What kind of letters?"

Rifling. "Well, it looks like mostly old business letters, but there are a few addressed to you. That's how I got your name. They're all signed by a Wesley."

A sigh on the other end of the line. "Actually, I would like those back. When would you like to meet?"

Travis grins and tries not to let his success through his voice. "Any time you're available works for me."

**XXXX**

Alex (MacFarland-Mitchell) Kinsey has to be pushing ninety, but she moves like she's only crested sixty. Her hair is a distinguished silver, and her eyes are a calm, gentle blue that immediately makes Travis relax. She carries herself with the kind of self-respect and dignity that has Travis automatically digging for those lessons in manners a few foster moms tried to teach him. He stands when she approaches the table and even pulls out her chair.

They order coffee and make small talk until it comes, the sort of tentative probing all strangers do when meeting for the first time. It's easy to relax around Alex, and Travis is pleased to see she seems to feel the same way.

When the coffee finally comes, Alex pours creamer into her mug and gets down to business. "You said you had a box?"

"Oh, right." Travis pulls the box out from under his seat, setting it on the table. Eager as he is to spout off all his questions at once, he stays silent and sips his coffee as Alex runs her fingers over the top of the lid, a look on her face full of nostalgia and wistfulness.

"I wondered where this got to," she says softly, opening the lid. Papers rustle gently as she thumbs through them. "In all of the confusion, I misplaced it. I thought it would have been lost by now." Her hands are gentle on the brittle paper as she pulls one piece out, smiling softly. Tears glisten in her eyes when she runs a fingertip over the scrawled signature at the bottom. "My Wesley…"

"What was he like?" Travis asks, polite enough not to mention the tears.

Alex sighs, eyes sweeping across the lines on the page. "He always seemed arrogant and cold, at first, but he could be so warm and affectionate. And oh, he had such a way with words." She smiles, looking up at him. "He never liked to admit he cared, of course. He would hide it behind sharp words and scowls. But he had a mother-hen streak a mile wide, and he was always willing to take care of the people he cared about." She sighs at her memories, face nostalgic. "He was a good man."

"He sounds wonderful," Travis says dutifully, trying to reconcile the persnickety, cabinet-banging ghost living in his house with the loving man she's describing. It isn't quite matching up. (Alright, there are moments where Wes isn't too bad, but then he reverts to his annoying assholey self.) Then again, Travis never knew the guy when he was alive, so who knows.

"He was," Alex says, oblivious to Travis's thoughts. "Did you know that was our first house?"

"Yeah?" Travis asks, sipping his coffee. "It's my first house too."

"It's a wonderful home, isn't it?" She smiles, carefully setting the letter back in the box. "We bought it brand new off the lot. Wesley said he knew it was the one the moment he saw it." Her smile turns sad, and her gaze turns inward. "We were going to have children there, raise a family. The American dream."

Travis clutches his mug and doesn't say anything.

Alex sighs, sipping at her own coffee. "But he died." Her eyes sharpen, focusing on Travis. "But I suppose you already knew that, didn't you?"

It's not really a question. Travis looks down at his mug and shrugs sheepishly. "I may have done some research before meeting you."

Instead of getting mad, Alex softens and chuckles a little. "Yes, I suppose you must have, if only to have found me."

They're both quiet for a few moments, Alex lost in memories, Travis trying to figure out the best way to approach the subject he wants to know. Finally, he decides to just bite the bullet and go for it. Stepping carefully has never been his style; no need to start now.

"Can I ask a personal question?"

Alex raises an eyebrow in invitation. "Go ahead."

"Well…" Travis fiddles with a napkin. "If it's not too painful, what happened? When he died? The papers said it was a break in, but there weren't a lot of details…"

He immediately feels bad when he sees Alex's face sink in sorrow. She's silent so long that Travis is about to call it a lost cause and leave the poor women to her life when she speaks.

"He was a lawyer, my Wesley," she says, voice a horrible mixture of fondness and the sort of grief that never goes away. "He was very, very good at what he did. And because he was very good at his job, he made enemies."

She sets her coffee down and folds her hands on the table, as though bracing herself for something. She's not looking at Travis anymore, staring over his shoulder and fifty years into the past.

"There was a young man whose brother my husband put in jail. And this young man was so very angry at my husband for what happened to his brother. He made death threats in court, and for a while, we had someone come patrolling through the neighborhood a few times a night. After a few weeks, when nothing happened, the patrols stopped. They thought the threat had gone away."

"But it hadn't," Travis prompts at her silence.

Alex sighs. "No. It hadn't. Almost a month after the trial, the young man broke into our home. He had a gun, and he shot my husband, right there in his office." Her fingers spasm on the table, and a few tears trickle from her eyes. "I was at a book club meeting. The policemen said I was lucky, that I could have been killed as well if I'd been at home. But my husband was _dead_. I didn't feel lucky."

Travis reaches over, wrapping her hands in his own. He's seen enough grieving widows to know there's only so much comfort he can give, but that doesn't stop him. After a moment, she turns her hand over and gives his a squeeze.

"I'm so sorry."

Alex smiles, the sort of melancholy smile of someone who's long become used to the pain. "Thank you. It was a long time ago, though."

"That doesn't mean it ever really goes away." Travis knows. Over thirty years old and he still can't think of his biological mother without feeling the sting of abandonment in his chest. Some things never fade, they just get buried by the years until it's not such an immediate hurt.

She gives him a watery smile and for a few minutes, they don't say anything at all, just cling to each other in support.

Finally, Alex pulls her hands away, gathering the box into her lap. "I'm sorry. I must be going. If there was anything else…?"

"No, no, it's fine." Travis stands, holding out his hand. "It was very nice meeting you."

"And you." Her handshake is firm and solid. "If you ever find anything else, please let me know."

Travis smiles and promises, "Of course."

**XXXX**

Travis tosses his jacket over the back of the couch, heading towards the fridge. He's starving, and as delightful as that coffee was, it didn't fill his stomach.

The cupboard door next to the stove slams.

Travis rolls his eyes, pulling out a plate and a microwave cover. "Oh, come off it. I'll pick it up in a bit."

The cupboard door slams again.

Travis ignores it.

"You know," he says, opening the fridge and ducking his head inside. "I talked to your wife today."

The fridge light flickers.

"Uh-huh. Alex." Deciding on a macaroni casserole a foster mom dropped off (because she's under the impression he's still seven and can't manage to feed himself), Travis pulls the dish out and sets it on the island. "She's really nice. And hot, for an old lady. If she was fifty years younger, I'd totally go for it."

The plate flies off the counter and narrowly misses his head.

"Hey! I'm not _going_ to go for her. She's, like, old enough to be my grandmother, if I had one. Besides, I don't go after married women, and I definitely wouldn't go for the woman of the guy who's prone to abusing my cabinets!"

The plate rattles on the ground. Travis closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. When he opens them, the plate has moved from the floor to the sink, and another plate has been set on the counter.

Travis didn't know a simple plate could actually _look_ sheepish.

"Well," he says, staring at it. "Alright. Apology accepted."

The air warms a fraction, and the light over the stove flickers.

Is it sad that Travis can actually tell the difference between a happy flicker and an angry flicker now?

Probably.

"She's doing alright, you know," he chats, scooping macaroni and chicken and cheese onto the plate. "I looked her up. She went back to school in the 70's, became a lawyer. She was really good, too. And she married a nice guy—don't worry, I did a background check, he's clean—and has a few kids and grandkids." Travis pops the plate and cover in the microwave, leaning against the counter as his food cooks. He can't help smiling a little. "She named her eldest son Wes."

Travis has become so used to the ghost's presence that he doesn't even think about it anymore. The flickering lights that talk back to him, the cold breezes running down his arms, the clattering furniture. Even the gazes on his neck, which have slowly evolved from open hostility to a grudging sort of acceptance. They're familiar. Even when he's not in the room, there's still a _sense_ of him, floating around the house.

He's become so used to the presence that he knows instantly the ghost isn't there anymore.

Travis stiffens off the counter, looking around the living room as though he can find the spectre if he only looks hard enough.

"Wes?" he calls softly, like he's going to break something if he speaks too loud. There's something about this stillness that's different from when Wes was merely ignoring him. This feels…more. This feels like Wes has walked away and shut the door behind him, instead of giving him the cold shoulder while still in the same room.

There's nothing. Not even the smallest rattle.

Travis feels unexpectedly alone.

**XXXX**

The house is lonely.

Travis forgot what a lonely house could feel like, after all these months. There's a difference in the air when no one else is there, and even though Wes _wasn't_ there, not really, he was still…well, _there_. His presence lingered even when he was in another room, and Travis, using his carefully honed cop-senses, always just _knew_ that Wes was still lurking around somewhere, watching disapprovingly as Travis kicked his shoes off by the door.

Now, there's _nothing, _nothing in the house, and the air feels cold and still.

Travis has gotten used to Wes being there, and he doesn't like being alone.

It's because of what he said, bringing up Alex's life after Wes died, Travis gets that, and he's willing to give Wes some space about it. Take the time to mull everything over. Fine, sure.

But a couple of days leads to Friday night, and Travis comes home to his empty, lifeless living room looking at the prospect of an entire weekend alone, and he can't stand the thought. Without even taking off his jacket, he turns right back around and goes out.

There's a bar, and drinks, and a girl with too much lipstick who presses up against his side and purrs in his ear. She's looking for a night of fun and he's looking to stave off the loneliness and it seems like a match made in heaven. A couple more drinks and they're staggering off for a cab.

There's a part of Travis that is hoping Wes will show up in the middle of the proceedings, glaring daggers at the back of his neck and scowling invisibly, which is why he directs the cab to go to his house. Because Wes has disappeared in a sulk, and maybe this is the thing that will pull him out of it and bring normalcy back to Travis's life.

(And when did this become _normal_, that a few days _without_ a ghost pestering him seems truly strange?)

Travis falls into bed with the girl—Melinda, that's her name—and he gets a bit distracted, because he always likes sex and it's quite good at taking his mind off things.

But he lays there afterwards, staring at the ceiling, and waits.

Not a single light flickers, and he's inexplicably disappointed.

**XXXX**

Something, obviously, has gone wonky in his life. He spent over thirty years living without a ghost, he can certainly do it again.

"He was a pain in the ass anyway," Travis grumbles on Saturday, defiantly throwing his jacket on the back of the couch. He kicks off his boots and scatters them on the floor. Scowling, he plops on the couch, and then, oh, and then he puts his feet up on the table—a previously unallowed action because Wes would always shove them right off. But Wes isn't _here_ and this is _Travis's _home so he can do whatever he damn well pleases.

"I definitely don't need him," he scowls at the TV. "Made it my entire life without him hanging around, I don't need him cluttering up my home."

Not that Wes cluttered anything up. He cleaned everything up painstakingly to the point of annoyance, that's what he did. Always did the dishes and annoyed Travis about hanging his jacket up and putting his boots by the door. Pain in the ass. Just a humongous pain in the ass is what he was.

And Travis definitely doesn't miss him even a little.

"Goddammit!" he growls, turning off the TV. In a fit of pique he tosses the remote at the wall. It lands with a dull thud on the carpet, and Travis glowers at it like it personally offended him.

"This is stupid," he tells himself, "This is the stupidest you've ever been. He's an annoyance. A pest. A ghostly little gnat that just pisses you off most of the time. There's nothing to miss!"

Which is, in every way, true. Travis tells himself he's just missing the company, gotten used to the constant companionship and, well, he's always hated being alone.

But he brought Melinda home last night and it wasn't enough.

Travis glares at the gramophone, resisting the urge to get up and toss all the stupid jazz records at the wall in a fit of childish temper. All the jazz records _he_ bought, because Wes played it every morning when Travis went to work. Travis doesn't even _like_ jazz, but he bought it because he thought…

Well. It doesn't really matter what he thought, does it?

"Dammit." Travis slumps against the couch, staring blankly at the TV. "God _dammit_."

It's been less than five days, but he feels lonelier now than he did when he was actually living alone.

With a distressed groan, he lets his head fall back against the sofa. "I am so screwed up."

He wants Wes to come back. That's screwed up. Hell, it makes his previous relationships look positively _stable_.

Sighing, he stares fixedly at the TV and tells himself not to brood.

It doesn't work.

**XXXX**

A week. It's been a week since Wes threw a snit and disappeared, and Travis is spending another night in front of the TV, drinking beer and watching TV. Kendall and Randi offered to take him out, but he'd spent his entire day off doing chores around the house, and right now all he wants to do is relax and unwind, and hanging out with his girls, while fun, is neither.

He finally got around to mowing the lawn, which was getting a little overgrown. He has no intention of ever weeding the stupid thing, he'll let those just grow because it's a pain in the ass, and dandelions bring some color so why not. He finally had someone come out to look at the damp in the basement, and he has an appointment for next week to get that fixed. And he dusted. God, how he dusted, getting all the nooks and crannies and even up on top of the ceiling fan. He had no idea there were so many places that needed dusting in a house.

Now he's sitting on the couch, watching TV. The TV sitting on the bookshelf in the living room. When he first saw the monstrous shelving unit at the open house, he thought it was a little too big for the space, but it's grown on him, and it's perfect for his stuff, the trinkets and knickknacks he's picked up over the years. He actually rather likes the thing; he eventually came to think it added some character.

Until he had to dust it. God, there's so many little shelves and he has so much _junk_ that has to be picked up and wiped off and then the shelf gets wiped off before the knickknack can be put down again… It was so much easier when Wes was here, he'd keep them tidy, straightening them and dusting them while Travis was asleep.

Travis is not thinking about Wes right now.

He's thinking about the game on TV and the cold beer in his hands. He's definitely not thinking about wanting someone sitting beside him on the couch, not yelling and cheering like Randi and Kendall would, just sitting quietly and enjoying the game.

He could always go out, find another girl, distract himself that way…but that worked _so _well last time, didn't it?

No. Not tonight. Just…not tonight.

When he empties his beer, he gets up with a groan, making his slow way to the kitchen. He grabs another, stops to stare at the food in his fridge—not a lot, and nothing he wants to take the energy to heat up right now—and stumbles back to the couch. He stares at the game for a few minutes before picking up the remote, casually flipping through the channels without settling on any single one. Hundreds of channels and nothing to watch. Or just nothing he cares about.

God, he's got problems.

_I'm fine_, he reminds himself, _totally fine. Managed without an annoying ghost for thirty years, definitely don't need one now._

And now he's thinking about Wes. Dammit.

He still hasn't seen a sign that Wes is still here, not since he got back from talking with Alex. At first, he thought Wes was just sulking, off in his little spectral corner upset about the world moving on without him, but not even Travis sulks for a week without letting _someone_ know he's alive. Or, in this case, dead. Un-dead? Post-dead? Whatever.

He can't help but wonder if talking about Alex has made Wes leave for good. As annoying as the ghost is, trying to get Travis to clean up after himself and touching his stuff when Travis isn't looking, Travis honestly misses him. Living in his trailer, he always brought girls home, so he never had to worry about being alone, but they were always temporary guests. Living with someone like this (sort of), having someone there when he comes home every day…it's…nice. And now, with Wes silent and unresponsive no matter how many socks he leaves on the floor or how high the dishes pile in the sink, his home is…

Well, it's lonely.

Travis has forgotten how horrible being lonely can feel.

It sucks. He's not prepared for it.

Travis sighs and sets his beer on the table, flipping to another channel. There's not even anything good on the movie channel—

There's the faintest knock of glass on wood. Travis freezes.

Slowly, his eyes drag to the table. His beer bottle is still in the same place, but underneath it is a coaster.

Travis isn't even sure he _owns_ a set of coasters, but if he did, he knows the one being that would be able to find them.

Something in his chest relaxes, that lonely ache in his gut dissipating as though it never existed. _You have so many problems, Marks_, he tells himself, even as he looks around the room with a grin on his face.

"Oh man." He lets out a relieved exhalation, sinking back into the couch cushions. "Am I glad to see you. Or, you know, not." He waves a hand dismissively. "I thought I might have scared you away."

A breeze brushes across his cheek, and he can imagine the haughty scoff that accompanies it.

"Well, you disappeared on me for days, what was I supposed to think?" With a laugh, Travis reaches for the beer bottle again, acting as though nothing happened. He was fine, he didn't have a fit of maudlin brooding just because Wes was gone. No way. "Though, if I'd known talking to your ex-wife would get you to back off a bit, I would have done it a week ago."

His hand closes on empty air. The next second, icy beer has been dumped over his head. Travis squawks and leaps to his feet, gaping at the floating beer bottle above the couch.

"Dude, what the hell?"

The beer bottle goes flying through the air. Luckily, Travis still has enough coordination to duck out of the way, and the bottle shatters against the wall. Not that it does him any good. The remote follows the bottle, the neglected cactus trailing in its wake. Both crash against the wall.

When the things on the bookshelf start shaking, Travis leaps behind the island in the kitchen and ducks.

A brightly-colored porcelain llama he found at a flea market dies a grisly death against the fridge. More stuff flies by, hardier stuff standing up to the torment, breakables shattering against cabinets and appliances. Travis scowls as a saguaro cactus wearing a sombrero dies, the happy little face rolling against his shoe.

"I hope you know you're cleaning this all up!"

The violence in the living room stops. Travis breathes a sigh of relief and stands, surveying the mess. Most of the stuff is beyond salvageable, which sucks, because he really likes his stuff. But some of it is fine, and Travis can always go to more flea markets later.

"All this because I mentioned your ex? God, you're possessive."

Glasses and silverware start shaking, and Travis realizes that maybe insulting a ghost with poltergeist abilities while standing in a kitchen full of easily-weaponized items is not a good idea.

Travis grabs his jacket and is out of the house before the first glass leaves the shelf.

**XXXX**

This is all Wes's fault.

What an asshole. He disappears for a week and the first thing he does is pick a fight?

Five minutes ago he was wishing Wes would return. Now he's wondering why he ever wanted the bastard back in the first place.

**XXXX**

"Travis?" Emma Ryan opens her door with a quizzical smile on her face. "What can I do for you?"

"You said I could come to you if I have relationship problems, right?" Travis asks, hands shoved in his pockets.

She blinks. "Well, no, that's not _exactly_—"

"I need your help."

"I'm sorry?"

Travis points an accusing finger at the house across the street. The sound of breaking dishes stopped the moment he left the house, but he can feel Wes's eyes on him, watching and judging and just as angry as when Travis first moved in.

"The stupid ghost in my house is throwing a tantrum and breaking my stuff!"

Emma stares at Travis. Travis stares at Emma.

And then he swings the accusing finger at her face. "You! You _knew_!"

"I _suspected_," she corrects gently, stepping out onto the porch and closing the door behind her. "I have lived across the street from that house for a decade, and I have seen many strange things. Stories are told, rumors abound, and suddenly there's a legend of a haunted house."

Travis huffs a disbelieving laugh, running his hands over his face. "No _wonder_ the place was so damn cheap." He shoots her an annoyed look. "You could have told me, you know. Could have said, 'Hi, I'm Dr. Ryan, by the way you have a ghost in your house.' Would have been the neighborly thing to do."

Emma leans against the porch rail, somehow looking elegant even in jeans and a pullover. "You were having a party. I didn't want to ruin it with rumors I couldn't prove."

"Sure, right, that makes sense." Travis shoves his hand back in his pocket with a growl. "And the realtor didn't say anything because she wanted her commission and the owners didn't say anything because they wanted to get rid of the house." He glares across the yard at his perfect little home that's been taken over once more by an _asshole_. "And now I'm stuck with a roommate I can't get rid of and a bunch of broken stuff."

"To be fair, you've been dealing with the ghost quite well these past few months," she says with a gentle shrug. "As said, I've lived here for many years. None of the other owners have coped quite as well as you have."

Travis doesn't say anything because he's not quite sure what to say to that.

Emma is quiet, a thoughtful look on her face. "Did you say or do anything in particular to set him off?" she asks, like this is a completely rational conversation to be having on her front porch.

Travis rubs his face and slumps against the rail next to her. "I don't know. I was talking about his ex and he just went off on me."

"His ex," she says in that curiously flat tone shrinks use to invite more words.

He's too distracted to notice. "Yeah, his ex. The woman he was married to when he was alive. I talked about her a few days ago, and he disappeared in a sulk for a while, but he didn't fly into a rage like this."

"Did you use the term 'ex' the first time?" she asks thoughtfully, on some train of thought Travis can't follow.

He thinks back to the other day. And then, slowly, "No, I don't think so."

"Travis," Emma says, using a very gentle _I'm going to guide you to the problem because you don't see it but you'll have to be the one to fix it _tone of voice. "Perhaps he simply didn't like you using the word 'ex'?"

Travis stares at her.

"Think about it. He was married to this woman, and then he died, and he never moved on. Not just spiritually, but probably emotionally as well. And while logically, he knows his wife must have had a life beyond his demise, _emotionally_ she is still his wife. You saying ex just strikes right at his heart."

Travis stares at her.

Opens his mouth.

Closes his mouth.

Blinks.

"Holy shit."

She continues to prod. "Travis, this is someone who has not moved on with his life. Afterlife. That includes his emotions. It's possible he _cannot_ move on, that he doesn't know how. You calling his wife an ex may be something he literally cannot deal with, and so he lashes out."

"Seriously?"

She smiles gently. "I've seen it before."

"So what am I supposed to do?"

She blinks, looking mildly surprised, like she hadn't expected the question.

"Talk to him, of course."

**XXXX**

Full of trepidation, Travis creeps into the house, going in low. If Wes is waiting with projectiles at the ready, he won't be expecting Travis's head to be at waist height.

Nothing comes flying through the air, but the light in the front hall flickers. Wes is still here, then.

Well, duh. Where else would he go?

"Wes?" Travis calls cautiously, untucking from his crouch. He looks around, but there's nothing, just a chill in the air and a general sense of a pissed glare aimed his way. This would be so much easier if he could see who he was talking to.

"Wes, I'm sorry for calling Alex your ex," he announces. The pantry door swings open, slamming against the wall. Travis whirls, hands at the ready. The door bounces against the wall again, again. _Bang. Bang._

"I'm sorry you don't like it," he continues. Cupboard doors join the pantry door. Travis has to shout to be heard over the ruckus.

"But you gotta face facts, man! She _is_ your ex! She's moved on, she's long gone. She's not yours anymore!"

He's prepared. He dives out of the way as a saucepan flies past.

"Stop throwing my stuff around!" he hollers. Unfortunately, that just makes Wes throw _another_ pan at his head, and suddenly Travis has had enough. He's fine with the flickering lights and the drafts, with his stuff being cleaned and moved around all the time, but he is _not_ going to let some pissy asshole drive him away by throwing his possessions around.

"Is this how you do it?!" He stands in the middle of the tempest, heedless of the winds whipping his clothes around or the objects flying dangerously close to his skull. "You just make a big mess until they get so scared they run?! Well, guess what, pal, _it won't work! _This is _my_ house, this is _my_ home, and _you can't scare me off_, no matter what you do!"

A knife flies past his face, slicing a line in his cheek. Travis clenches his fists and screams as loudly as he can.

"_I'M NOT LEAVING!"_

Everything

just

_stops_

The winds die, the lights steady, and everything in the air drops to the ground. The chill rises, going colder and colder until he can see his breath, and there's an actual, tangible weight to the air.

"No. This is _my_ house."

Somehow, even though he was expecting it, Travis still isn't prepared when he turns around.

Wesley Mitchell stands there, arms crossed, glaring at Travis like he can make Travis go away through sheer force of will. He's wearing a grey suit, shiny black shoes, and he has the sharpest blue eyes Travis has ever seen; Travis didn't realize they'd be so clear in the black-and-white obit photo.

There's no bullet wound, no blood. Nothing aside from the pale pallor in his skin to suggest he's anything but a living, breathing human.

Travis smiles and introduces himself for the first time. "I'm Travis."

"I _know_." The voice doesn't sound quite right. There's a hollow quality to the words, like Wes is speaking through a tube. "This is my house."

"And this is my house." Travis keeps his hands out, shuffling closer. It's just like trying to talk a kid down from a rooftop; go slowly, no sudden moves, try to make a connection. Except here, the end result isn't death, but another tantrum. Wes gives him a curiously annoyed look but doesn't move.

He takes another step closer. "Why can't it be both our houses?"

"Because it's _my_ house." Travis didn't think he had any more plates left, but something rattles on a shelf. He stops.

"We can share the house. It's worked pretty well so far, right?"

Wes scowls, hands twitching. "You are a _slob_."

"Hey!" Travis straightens, ignoring the way Wes's eyes narrow. "Just because I'm not an anal neat-freak like you doesn't mean I'm a _slob_!"

A pillow flies off the couch towards Travis's face. He ducks. It hits his shoulder and bounces off; he's just glad it was soft.

"Really? Just because I… whatever. Look, I'm pretty neat. I keep the house looking nice, and you take care of the rest. It's been working. So we can just share like we've been doing, right?"

Travis tries to be logical and lay out his arguments like he's presenting a case. That should strike Wes's lawyer-y fancy, right?

Wes stares at him, face stony. Travis shivers, not just from the force of the glare but from the chill in the room. He almost feels like he needs a winter coat. He lives in goddamn California, he doesn't even _own_ a winter coat.

"Fine," Wes says finally, spitting it out like it pains him to do so. Travis tries not to grin too triumphantly.

"Okay. Good. That's good." He rubs his hands together, not even trying to pretend he's not warming his hands. "Then we need to lay down some ground rules. All roommates have ground rules."

"We're not roommates_._"

"Fine. Whatever. Housemates. Housemates need to have ground rules. You agree?"

Those icy eyes narrow in contemplation, but Wes nods.

"Good. Alright. Rule one: no throwing Travis's stuff when he mentions Wes's ex."

The coffee table skids a few inches across the floor like someone shoved it with their foot. Travis hops back a step.

"Rule two: Travis will do his best to avoid mentioning things that upset Wes, such as Wes's ex."

The table slides back into place.

"Rule three," Wes growls, voice echoing faintly. It's sufficiently intimidating. "Travis will do _his own goddamn dishes_ so Wes doesn't have to _deal with the mess_."

"I'll do them twice a week."

"Six days.

"Three.

"Four."

"Deal." Travis nods, scooting a few more steps towards his spectral roommate. _Housemate_. What_ever_. "Rule four: We can talk, and add rules, but if any of them change both of us have to agree."

Wes's stony face thaws a little bit, and he nods. "That's acceptable."

"Great." Travis is just a few steps away, now. He gives the ghost his most winning smile and holds out his hand. "Then I think we're good for now, yeah? We'll just shake on it and move past this little fight?"

Wes thinks about it for a long time, long enough that Travis thinks he's going to disagree and go back to throwing stuff.

But then he rolls his eyes and grumbles, "Fine," and slides his hand into Travis's.

It's not like touching a real person. There's a sensation, for sure, like holding mist in his hand, and it's cold, sticking-his-hand-through-fog cold. He's a little surprised his hand isn't damp when Wes pulls away.

It's warmer now, Travis can't see his breath anymore. That's a good sign. Stepping back, he puts his hands on his hips and spins to survey the damage. Oh, there's a mess here. It'll take forever to clean up.

"I'll do it," Wes says, and Travis jumps, not quite used to having his ghost actually talk to him. He glances over, but Wes isn't looking at him. He's staring at the cactus crumpled against the wall.

"I'll clean up," Wes clarifies. He shrugs like he can see Travis's gaze and he's trying to brush it off. "I made the mess. You can go to sleep."

And Travis may not be the best person to go to for relationship advice, but he knows how these things work from observation.

"I'll help."

The smile Wes shoots him, all white teeth and delight, makes the prospect of staying up half the night cleaning worth it.

**XXXX**

Travis replaces all his broken dishes with plastic ones.

He says it's because of the cost. Plastic is cheaper than glass or stoneware.

Wes just looks at the dishes and silently starts putting them away.

To make up for it, Travis gets another cactus for the coffee table.

**XXXX**

Things settle back to the way they were. Travis mostly cleans the place. Wes cleans the rest of it to his own satisfaction.

The only difference is that now, instead of flickering lights and cold breezes, Wes is visible and talks to him. And it's much better having conversations when his conversational partner can verbally contribute.

It turns out Wes can cook. Travis wouldn't have thought men from the fifties did much cooking at all, but Wes is _really good_ at it, and Travis is more than happy to make grocery runs if it means a home cooked meal. He'll sit and the counter and eat while Wes cleans the dishes and puts the food away, and they'll just chat.

It's the coziest scene of domesticity he's ever been exposed to, and the only reason he isn't running like a bat out of hell is because every so often Wes's form will flicker into intangibility and Travis will remember that his roommate is actually dead.

Somehow, that makes it less scary than the thought normally is.

Travis doesn't think about it too much.

**XXXX**

There are a few snags in their odd relationship. It's not easy for two mostly-solitary people to live together, whether or not they're both, in fact, living.

There are things like the Bathroom Plumbing Incident, and the Thing With The Laundry That Will Never Be Spoken Of. They have to create three new rules to work out chores details and Travis has learned that if he's going to bring a girl home, he has to ask Wes about it first.

(That had been awkward, turning around after the girl left to find Wes glaring at him and the living room like a freezer. He'd needed Dr. Ryan to work that one out too, and it added a whole new rule; make sure it's okay with the roomie before having someone over.

At which point Travis thought to himself, _Yeah, that makes sense, it's good to be courteous in a relationship,_ and then he realized how weird that actually was because he and Wes are not _in _any sort of relationship. They're just sharing space because they're both too stubborn to leave.)

But for the most part, it's good. It's strange and weird and any outsider would raise their eyebrows, but it works. And really, that's enough.

**XXXX**

About a month after he meets with Alex Kinsey (MacFarland-Mitchell), Travis receives a lovely, handwritten thank you note from her.

Travis deposits the note on the table and leaves the moment the lights start flickering ominously. (Yes, he knows what ominous flickering looks like.) He heads next door and sits on Emma's porch, because she's kind of a cool lady, when she's not doing her shrink thing on him, and she promised to try and avoid that.

She comes out a few minutes later, wrapped in a shawl and looking apprehensively across the street. Even from here, they can hear the smacks as plastic dishes hit the walls.

"How are things going?" she asks, sitting on the stoop next to him.

Travis shrugs and pretends he doesn't notice the curious twitch in the curtains across the street as Rozelle or Clyde peers at the lightshow in Travis's house. Every light flashes on and off, and Travis can only imagine what the rest of the neighborhood thinks is happening.

"I'm giving him some space," Travis says blandly. "He…uh…he has some things he needs to work through." At her curious eyebrow, he shrugs. "Things relating to a certain wife who may or may not be his ex."

"Ah." Travis continues to be astounded by how calm Emma always is. Like this is just a normal everyday conversation to have.

Actually, maybe for her it is. Aside from the whole my-partner-is-dead thing, this is probably what she hears all the time in couples counseling.

And isn't _that _a thought to have about his not-romantically-involved-in-any-way-because-it's-completely-impossible roommate?

After a few minutes watching the lightshow across the street, Emma asks, "What's he like?"

And Travis, who has a sense for these things, can tell she's not fishing for information as a shrink. She's asking as someone who's lived across the street from a ghost for a decade and is curious. For that reason, and that reason alone, he bothers to answer.

"He's…" Travis searches for a word to describe Wes, and can't settle on just one. "…something. He's got this wicked funny sense of humor, but he's so uptight most of the time I hardly ever see it. He's a complete neat freak and he gets on my case about my stuff _all the time, _but he's also a _really _ , seriously, you have no idea. He doesn't like it when I bring girls over, but, you know, I think that's just because he's not too fond of people in general. And he only knows bits and pieces about the modern world, cooped up as he's been, but I'm slowly bringing him up to date." Travis leans back, grinning. "Honestly, I think if he'd been alive now, we'd have really liked each other and been best friends."

He pauses, thinks about it. "Or we would have _really_ hated each other and fought all the time."

Emma chuckles. "Sometimes, the best relationships are the ones that form when personalities clash. I'm sure you've heard the saying 'opposites attract'? It's not untrue." She pats his arm with a soft smile. "Maybe you'll be the one he lets stay."

Travis props his chin on his hands and watches the lights in his windows slowly stop guttering.

"Maybe."

**XXXX**

_Travis dreams._

_Wes is sitting of the couch, and he looks sad. The lights are low, but Travis can easily discern the slump in his shoulders and the dejected cast to his face. In his hands is a small piece of card._

_Travis has the urge to go over and pull Wes into a hug. He dismisses it as irrational._

_And then he thinks, _Why not? _and sits beside Wes on the couch. He wraps an arm around Wes's shoulder, and though Wes stiffens, he doesn't pull away. Emboldened, Travis tugs Wes against his side, cradling him under his arm._

"_I'm sorry," he murmurs. Wes doesn't say anything, so he continues. "I know how hard it can be to let go and move on." Travis knows. Of all the people in the world, Travis knows._

_The card flutters out of pale fingers, and Wes buried his head in his hands. "I don't have anything left," he says, so empty and matter-of-factly that Travis's heart breaks._

To hell with it_, he thinks, and goes all out, twisting on the couch and pulling Wes against him, wrapping him in a full-bodied embrace. Wes fits in the space in his arms like he was meant to, filling the gaps in all the ways Travis has never been able to achieve with his one-night stands and short-lived relationships. Like he was made for this moment, to fit in Travis's arms._

_Opposites attract. Because opposites are made to fit all the gaps._

"_You still have me," Travis says, trying his damnedest to sound completely casual. He's not quite sure he manages it. "I don't have any intention of leaving."_

_Wes looks up, eyes bright, and opens his mouth. Travis waits with baited breath—_

_And Wes is gone, and all he feels is wind brushing across his face and he hears nothing._

_Sometimes he forgets._

_Sometimes Wes is so alive, and Travis forgets to remember that Wes is just dead, and when he does, it just makes it that much harder._

Travis wakes, trembling and panting, feeling sick to his stomach. He staggers out of bed and makes his way to the bathroom, not bothering to turn on the light. Splashing his face with cold water doesn't make him feel any better, but it does wake him up a bit more.

Knowing he'll never get back to sleep, Travis heads to the living room, intending to numb his brain on infomercials and cheesy late-night movies.

In the hallway, a cool breeze brushes his cheek, gently inquisitive. Travis stops and musters up a smile that feels too brittle.

"I'm fine," he announces, forcing cheer he doesn't feel so Wes will leave him alone. "Just a bad dream."

The breeze lingers for a second, curling around his shoulders like a cat, like someone wanting to give comfort. Then it vanishes, leaving Travis alone with his thoughts.

He closes his eyes and sighs, telling himself that whatever Wes needs, it's not Travis. Wanting anything more with a dead guy is just folly.

Travis himself isn't enough to help Wes, and he'll just have to live with that.

**XXXX**

Travis converts the dining room into a bullpen. Sort of. It's not like he actually _uses _the dining room for its intended purpose. He brings his work home because he is a workaholic, he will not lie, and he spreads the papers out on the dining room table and pins the crime scene photos to the corkboard on the wall.

(Travis has a corkboard because the first time he pinned a crime scene photo to the wall, Wes nearly brained him with a chair. The corkboard was the easy solution.)

He could have used the office, he supposes, but he sort of thinks of the office as 'Wes's room'. Wes is so much more…_there_ in the office, and it feels kind of weird to look up stuff on the computer with the sense that Wes is peering over his shoulder, even when he can hear Wes in the kitchen. So. Yeah. He doesn't use the office much.

(Okay, if he's honest, there was that whole fight about using the office and Wes basically kicked him out. But Travis likes the other version of events better. Makes it sound like he had a lot more choice in the matter.)

Besides, the dining room has so much more room so it's all cool. He can spread out and really pour over the evidence in front of him.

And sometimes. Well, sometimes it's really sad, how interested Wes gets in the cases. He doesn't want to just know the broad strokes, he wants to know everything, details about the victims and their families and the way they died that has Travis digging for any kernel he can remember.

Sometimes Travis thinks that Wes is so lonely, a dead man in a world of the living, that he'll cling to anything from the outside world, no matter how gruesome.

He orders a daily paper to be delivered, if only so Wes can have something to do while he's at work, some connection out there, but it doesn't feel like enough.

He wishes he could bring Wes outside the house with him. He wants to show Wes how much the world has changed since the 1950s, and how much has stayed the same. He wants to be able to talk to him at work, so he can bounce ideas off that sharp lawyer mind and change his perspective until the pieces line up and everything falls into place.

He kind of feels like Wes is the best friend he's always wanted, and he wants to show him off to the world.

But Wes can't leave the house.

Wes is _dead_.

Sometimes it's too easy to forget that.

**XXXX**

"How's it going?"

Kendall doesn't even look at the screen, fingers flying as she works her way into Travis's suspect's storage cloud. Travis thinks she's talking about the case.

She's not.

"With your ghost," she clarifies, eyes twinkling. "Do you still need me to look up those exorcisms for you?"

Travis doesn't even have to think about it. "No, I'm good. Hey, how long is this going to take?"

She hums. "Just a few minutes. I'm working on it." She looks down at the screen long enough to do…something, Travis doesn't know what, then looks up at him again.

After a second, her eyes widen, and she grins. "You're _happy_ about this!"

Travis wishes she was talking about the case. She's not.

He flashes her his patented I'm-Travis-Marks-and-I'm-such-a-charmer smile. "Darling, I'm _always_ happy."

"I know that." The typing pauses momentarily as she waves a dismissive hand. "This is different. It's like…now you're not just happy, you're _content_." She eyes him in a way that makes him a little uncomfortable, like he's got this shiny new firewall up and she wants to break through.

It's a little too much like how every psychologist he ever knew looked at him. He doesn't like it.

"I don't know what this ghost of yours is doing, but it looks good on you. I'm glad you finally found yourself a healthy relationship. Keep it up."

Travis gapes at the top of her head, because did she just say 'ghost' and 'healthy' in the same sentence? And who said anything about a _relationship_? He and Wes are just friends. Sort of. Maybe. At least, they share the same living space. There's no _relationship_ outside of that.

"_Opposites attract,"_ he remembers Dr. Ryan saying, and he shifts like he wants to run. But he needs Kendall to get into the cloud so he can bust this guy for murdering his boss to hide his embezzling, so he can't leave yet.

"It's not like that," is all he mutters, and doesn't say another word until she gets in with a triumphant _"Ah-hah!"_

**XXXX**

They _aren't_ like that. Not in the slightest.

Except when Travis comes home, Wes is usually cooking or vacuuming or doing the dishes, and the first words out of his mouth will be, "How was your day?"

And Travis knows Wes is only curious because he can't go outside himself, that he wants to hear about the world beyond the newspaper headlines, but sometimes it's so sickeningly domestic Travis doesn't know what to do about it. (Wes is so the wife. That's a given.)

Travis even calls Dr. Ryan sometimes, when they're having _relationship problems_, like when Wes wanted Travis to get rid of his computer in the office. _Because it's MY office,_ Wes had grumbled, lights flickering over his head in a way that threatened imminent danger to his computer.

And Dr. Ryan had said, _You should let him have the office, it's been his office for fifty-five years and it's been yours for a few months. Compromise is the backbone of every relationship_. _It's not like you're using it anyway._

So he moved the computer to the dining room, because why the hell not, all the rest of his work stuff was already there, and for the next three days Wes was extremely good-natured and happy and made cheeseburgers even though he hated them because he knew Travis liked them.

Okay, so they _are _in a relationship but really, it's not like that.

It's _not_.

**XXXX**

_Travis dreams._

_He comes home and tosses his jacket across the back of the couch. Wes is at the stove, stirring something, and the entire living room smells wonderful._

"_Hey," Travis says, and Wes turns, giving Travis a smile so blinding Travis can't help but smile back in reply._

"_Dinner's almost done," Wes says, as Travis crosses the kitchen and comes up behind him._

"_It smells delicious," he murmurs, leaning in close._

"_Do you want a taste?" Wes holds up a spoon, white sauce dripping down. Travis smirks and leans close, tasting the sauce and moaning in appreciation._

"_Damn, that is absolutely delicious. I'm pretty sure you cook better than any of my foster moms. Don't tell them I said that."_

_Wes chuckles and continues stirring, leaning back into Travis's chest. "Well, it's nice to be appreciated."_

_Travis just laughs, softly, and wraps his arms around Wes's waist. "You're wonderful."_

_He can do this, he thinks, tucking his head on Wes's shoulder. He can make a life here, with this wonderful, snarky, sharp-edged man. Because it's not scary, and it's not weird. It just feels _right_._

_And then Wes goes cold and insubstantial in his arms, fading away like mist, and Travis remembers that Wes is DEAD. Dead, deceased, gone, and he's left with arms full of fog and an ache in his chest._

Travis wakes.

"Goddammit."

For a long time, he just lays there, staring at the shadowed ceiling and taking long, slow, measured breaths. He doesn't turn on the light because he doesn't want Wes to come into the room to investigate why he's awake in the middle of the night.

It's totally Kendall's fault, she put that weird stupid suggestion about _relationships _in his head. He totally wouldn't have had that dream if she had kept her mouth shut.

That doesn't change the fact that he _did_ have the dream, or that his chest aches now in a way that makes him so incredibly lonely.

There are tears in his eyes he won't let fall, and he doesn't want Wes to question them.

Totally all Kendall's fault.

Stupid subconscious.

**XXXX**

There are ups and downs, but they're getting there. They manage well enough, Travis shoves pesky, unnecessary thoughts and/or feelings brought on by co-workers aside, and they cohabitate peacefully.

And then there are the times when Travis wants to make a change, and things will devolve quickly because Wes is a stubborn bastard who still thinks the house he died in fifty-plus years ago is his, and Travis is an equally stubborn bastard who wants to make his house _his_.

It often gets messy.

**XXXX**

"No."

"Wes, we're taking down the wallpaper."

Wes crosses his arms, and the lights in the office flicker. It would be more intimidating if Travis weren't so used to it, and it's easier to ignore the flickering when it's not his only means of communication with the man in front of him.

"_No_."

Travis rolls his eyes and gestures at the empty room. He had Money and a few friends come over yesterday and move the bookshelves and desk into the guest room, and he tacked down tarps on the floor. Solution is sitting and waiting to be poured. "I'm not going to make a mess. I'll be careful. But it's coming down."

"This is _my_ office, and it's _my_ wallpaper."

"Yeah? That's great." Technically, the office _is_ more Wes's room than any other room in the house. From what Travis can gather, it's the one room that miraculously remained unchanged through the decades, probably because Wes threw a complete shitstorm whenever any of the previous owners tried to do anything. (But Travis is lucky, because they have a super special agreement that prevents Wes from throwing any of Travis's stuff around now, and Wes has mostly held onto his end of the bargain except for a few select Incidences Which Shall Not Be Named.)

And it's not like Travis is using the office. He did and it didn't work out and he likes the dining room anyway. It's way more space. Really, Travis is the one who came out on top of that argument.

"But this wallpaper is hideous," Travis continues, determined to outstubborn a fifty-plus-year-old ghost.

"Alex picked it out," Wes says, and it's the first time he's talked about her without throwing stuff.

Not that there's anything to throw aside from paint trays and the wallpaper removal solution.

"It makes my eyes hurt." The wallpaper is a horrible turquoise color, with black and white squares and rectangles placed in no discernible pattern. It was sort of alright when there were bookshelves on three of the walls, but with nothing here, it's horrible. It needs to go.

"You don't even use the office."

"It's still disgusting and needs to go."

"You're not taking down my wallpaper," Wes says, continuing to be stubborn, like he's been stubborn for the past hour and a half.

Travis scowls and turns on his heel. "You are such a _stubborn bastard!_" he shouts as he storms out. "This is not over! I'm calling in the big guns!"

**XXXX**

"Dr. Ryan? Can you come over? I'm having _relationship problems._"

**XXXX**

Dr. Ryan takes one look at the wallpaper and says, "It has to go."

Wes, being the stubborn asshole that he is, doesn't even show himself to her, but the lights flicker above their heads.

"You see this?" Travis gestures. "You see what I have to put up with?"

With no one to frown at, Dr. Ryan turns her face towards the ceiling. "Now Wes," she chides, "compromise is important in a relationship," and Travis sputters beside her. She gives him a look and continues. "No matter what sort of relationship it may be. Travis has already compromised on his work space. The least you could do is allow him to take down this…wallpaper."

In the pause there's definitely a _'hideous_' lurking unsaid. Travis eyes the wallpaper again and winces. It hurts his eyes and makes him dizzy if he stares at it too long.

A few of the plastic paint trays rattle ominously.

Dr. Ryan crosses her arms. "Don't be like that. If you aren't willing to be flexible then this arrangement isn't going to work. Now, Wes, you may do whatever you'd like with this room after the wallpaper comes down. But the wallpaper _is_ coming down."

There's an angry burst of wind and the light goes out. Which is pretty much the equivalent of Wes going, _Fine, you can take down the stupid wallpaper, I hate you all_. Travis has to fight a grin at the petulance in the action.

He thanks Dr. Ryan on the way out, and, still grinning a little, goes to start on his little project.

**XXXX**

Wes sulks and stays invisible for an entire day.

"Who puts wallpaper _over_ another layer of wallpaper?" Travis grumbles, peeling the turquoise strip away to reveal more of the hideous floral monstrosity below. "I don't know much about wallpaper, but I'm pretty sure that's not how it's done."

"It was a stressful time in her life," Wes says blandly, peering out the window. "She had other things to think about, and she needed to get the house ready to show."

"What do you mean?" Travis asks distractedly, peeling at a particularly stubborn section of turquoise.

"I mean that she had other things on her mind to worry about than properly doing the wallpaper."

"Like what?" He gives the turquoise one last tug and it gives, coming up with only a little resistance after all that effort.

Oh.

"Like the fact that I'd just been murdered."

Travis stares at the dark red stain on the wall.

"_He had a gun, and he shot my husband, right there in his office."_

_Oh._

Travis puts the project on hold for the rest of the day.

**XXXX**

"You seem awfully happy," his partner says.

Travis looks up, stops humming—he didn't even realize he'd started—and grins. "I'm just in a good mood, is all."

"Yeah?" Eyebrows go up. "Any particular reason why?"

"Not really." Travis looks back at his paperwork. He's humming while doing _paperwork_, he must be in a _really_ good mood. "I'm in the middle of a project at home. Finally getting rid of that awful wallpaper in the office."

"Huh," his partner says. That's all, just, "Huh."

"What?"

"Nothing." A shrug. "The way you were acting, I just figured you had a girl."

**XXXX**

It's not the first time the comparison has been made. Kendall's said he's happier, Dr. Ryan keeps using the word 'relationship' like it's something more than housemates.

It doesn't matter if Travis can, for the first time, imagine living for the rest of his life in that little house on Dallas Avenue, arguing about projects around the house.

He ignores the dreams, the ones where he touches Wes and holds him close, giving him all the affection he can't in the daytime, and Wes touches him back like he's starved for the contact.

So what if he's only had a few affairs since moving in, preferring to spend his nights and weekends with the ghost in his home.

None of it means anything. Really.

(Travis has always been good at lying to himself.)

**XXXX**

A case comes up, the kind that lasts for days on end and makes him forget about little things like wallpaper projects and eating properly and sleeping.

A young woman, Janet Rennar, was killed by her boyfriend, Andrew Powers, and her roommate Monique was severely injured. They know Andrew did it. There's evidence from Janet's laptop webcam, a video of the murder. But the boyfriend is in the wind and none of their leads are panning out.

It's the kind of case Travis hates. Both victims' parents are crying, the boyfriend's parents are crying, everybody's crying all over the place, and the longer it takes to find Andrew, the higher the chance that the kid will skip town and literally get away with murder. Travis is sure Andrew's brother knows where their suspect is hiding, but he's not saying anything.

"Nick," Travis pleads, for the third time in as many days. "Tell us where your brother is."

Nick, cocky little shit, leans back and shrugs. "Sorry I can't help you, cops. Can't tell you what I don't know."

Travis really, really wishes he could punch the smug look off the kid's face. He rubs his hands across his mouth instead. "Look, do you understand what's happened here? Your brother killed his girlfriend and put her roommate in the hospital. She's still in critical condition. He's going down for this; there's no avoiding it. The sooner we find him, the easier it'll be on him. And if you help us, I won't slap you with an obstruction of justice charge."

Something like rage flickers in the kid's eyes, but then he leans back, all cocky swagger once more.

"I can't help you," he says condescendingly in a tone that makes Travis grit his teeth. "I don't know where he is. But if I see him, I'll be sure to let him know you're looking for him, a'ight?"

He grins a toothy grin and Travis realizes there's nothing more he can do here.

He gets up and leaves without another word.

**XXXX**

It burns, knowing that Andrew Powers is going to get away with murder because his brother won't tell them what he knows.

What's worse is that Nick isn't doing it out of any malice. (Well, not a lot of malice.)

It's just…love. Stupid, stubborn, hateful love, the kind that turns a blind eye to failings and is willing to do anything and everything necessary to protect the ones it engulfs.

Travis is pissed that the kid is such a cocky little bastard, but he wishes he could be upset with Nick for lying like this.

Truth is, Travis would probably do the same thing.

**XXXX**

He's exhausted by the time he finally drags himself through the front door. "I'm home," he calls, dumping his jacket and shoes by the door and not even caring. It's not like he even did anything that strenuous, but trying to talk to stonewalling suspects is always tiring.

Wes is standing at the stove, stirring, and Travis blinks away the déjà vu, sinking into the stool at the island.

"Same case?" the blond asks, shaking some spice or another into the pan. Travis never even owned spices before Wes started asking for them. As it turns out, spices can make or break a dish. Spices are like the fairy dust of cooking.

"Yeah." Travis props his chin on his hands, watching the lazy spin of the wooden spoon. "I've told you about the case, right?"

"Mmm. A guy killed his girlfriend and injured her roommate."

"Right." Travis debates getting up for a beer, then decides it's too far, then wonders the chances of getting Wes to get him one. Not too likely, he supposes. Wes doesn't seem to mind cooking or cleaning, but he can't stand it when Travis is being lazy. "Andrew Powers. He's in the wind, we've got no leads, and the brother is being a complete asshole."

The stirring hitches, a slight hesitation that Travis wouldn't have noticed if he wasn't watching.

"Brother?" Wes's voice sounds weird, beyond his usual hollow-ghostly quality. Travis sits up, on alert.

"Yeah, Nick," Travis says carefully, watching the blonde's form flicker intangibly. Wes usually only does that when he's distracted, and he's not usually that distracted. "Everything alright?"

Wes turns, his blue eyes dark, and smiles. "Everything's fine. Get your plate."

Travis tries to tell himself the shiver running down his spine is one of the side effects of living with a ghost.

**XXXX**

The case goes cold. Travis is pissed, but he's not altogether unsurprised. There's only a limited window of time they can spend on each case before leads run out, witnesses change their stories, and it's time to move on. That doesn't mean Travis will stop looking. It just means he can't look on company time.

Another case crosses his desk, another dead body in a world of the dying, and Travis sighs. He's getting way too morose for his own good. There's only one thing that will cure that.

He sends a quick text to Randi and Kendall, then leaves a message on the machine at home so Wes knows not to expect him until late.

He thinks it could be kind of awesome to go out and get shitfaced drunk with Wes. But since that isn't an option, he'll have to settle for his coworkers instead.

**XXXX**

"I hate my life," he groans into the table after too many tiny shots of tequila.

Kendall laughs, clapping him on the shoulder with too much force thanks to her own multitude of tequila shots. For such a slight girl, she can sure drink. "No you don't," she chirps, way too bright for his melancholy mood.

"It can't be that bad," Randi chimes in. She's not as drunk as Travis, because she did the responsible thing and ordered beer instead of tequila.

"It is," he moans, staring morosely at the bottom of his little cup. Look, it's empty. That makes him sad. "It's this stupid _case_. It's so…so…" He gropes for a word.

"Stupid?" Kendall offers, waving for another pitcher of beer. Travis drops his forehead with a clunk on the table.

"Yeah."

This time the reassuring back pat comes from Randi, and she is less exuberant about the whole thing. "I'm sorry, Travis," she says. "I know how much you hate it when bad guys get away."

He nods sullenly, turning his head to look at her. "You should bring Hudson here. I want to hug Hudson."

"Maybe next time," Randi offers, still patting his back.

Travis thunks his head on the table again, making distressed noises. "I wanted a dog, you know. I bet Wes would _hate _it if I got a dog. All the shedding fur and the muddy footprints and the accidents. Oh, he'd be _such_ a bastard about the damn dog, I just _know_ it."

"Wes?" Randi questions above his head.

"Travis's ghost," Kendall answers, then goes on to explain everything. Travis ignores them both.

"Hey, hey, we should call him!" Travis lifts his head and looks like this is the best idea _ever_. "We should call him and ask if I can get a dog! Yeah!"

"Travis, is that a good idea?" Kendall asks, but he's already fumbling out his phone and hitting the speed dial. Kendall and Randi share another glance over his head, and finally Kendall takes the device and puts it on speakerphone in the middle of the table.

The bar is not so incredibly loud that they can't hear when the ringing stops, and static fills the line.

"—_chzzk—"_

"Wes?" Travis leans close, yelling into the phone. "Wes, buddy, you there?"

"—_chzzk— _vis?"

"Yeah. Hey, yeah, Wes, can we get a dog?"

"Are _—chzzk— _drunk? Are you seriously _—chzzk—_ nk right now?"

"What is that?" Randi murmurs, tilting her head to listen closer.

"I don't know," Kendall frowns, "I've never heard static quite like that."

Travis looks up with a grin. "That's just Wes. He hates technology. Or maybe technology hates him. He does the same thing with the microwave. Makes it go _bzzzt_ all the time." He gives a goofy grin back at the phone. "Wes, we should get a dog!"

"I'm h_—chzzk—_ng up now."

"Weees!"

The phone goes silent, and Travis thunks his head back on the table.

There's a long moment of silence from the two women, and Randi takes the new pitcher of beer and pours.

"Okay," she finally says, once she's fortified herself with another glass. "You have a ghost. Okay. That's…different."

"I really like him," Travis says, pushing his sad empty tequila shot with his finger. The goofy look on his face is turning smitten. "He's really nice and smart and funny and cute. Like _really_ cute, for a dead guy."

"Right, I think you've had enough," Kendall announces, signaling for the check.

Travis sits up abruptly, swaying on his seat. "No, you don't understand." He tries to impart the urgency. "I _really _like him. He lives in my house. And _I'm not freaking out._ I'm living with him. I don't mind living with him. And _that's okay_." He leans in close like he's about to impart a secret. "I think…guys, I think maybe _he's the one_."

Randi looks torn between amusement and concern. "Travis, hun, he's _dead_."

Travis looks affronted. "So we have our problems! We're working through them. Don't judge us just because one of us is slightly-less-living than the other! That's…that's racism. Or something."

The look is definitely sliding towards fond exasperation. "Okay, I think it's time to get you home. Upsa-daisy."

Together, Kendall and Randi manage to lever him out of the bar and pour him into a cab. The forensic technician waves goodbye as the cab pulls off, and Travis slumps against Randi's shoulder.

"Stupid asshole, being all dead and incorporeal before I can properly relationship him."

Randi scritches her nails across his scalp. "I know, hun."

"And this stupid case. We were _so close_, and he just…" He sighs, snuggling into her shoulder. "I hate my life."

There's nothing but affectionate sympathy in her voice. "I know."

**XXXX**

Travis doesn't remember getting home. He doesn't remember staggering into bed face-first, or rolling off partway through the night.

He does remember a touch on his forehead, cool and ephemeral like fog, and when he blinks his eyes open, there's a by-now familiar pale face leaning over him.

"Travis, you need to get back into bed," Wes says, soft and only mildly disapproving.

Travis smiles, and he's pretty sure he's letting on way more than he intends with the gesture. If he weren't so drunk right now, that would bother him.

"You were born fifty years too early," he says, closing his eyes as the misty touch moves over his forehead again. "We would have been awesome partners."

The coolness on his head pauses, and then the ghost lets out a small chuckle. "I suppose I could probably put up with you, on a good day." He sounds amused at the thought, but also wistful.

Travis sighs and pointedly does not look at Wes. "We should go out sometime. That would be awesome. Kendall and Randi would love you."

The contact on his forehead disappears, and the air chills. "I can't leave, Travis. It's not possible."

"Then we'll find a way," Travis hums, rolling onto his side. He smiles sleepily and still doesn't open his eyes. "We'll make it happen. And it'll be awesome."

Wes doesn't say anything.

**XXXX**

Travis wakes on his bedroom floor, nauseous and hungover. He staggers to the bathroom, throws up, swishes water in his mouth, and throws up again.

He stares at his reflection in the mirror and wonders if it was all just a dream.

His reflection doesn't give him an answer.

**XXXX**

Wes is making breakfast, as usual, when Travis stumbles out. There's already a glass of orange juice waiting on the island, and Travis downs it greedily despite the roil in his stomach.

"You're an awesome wife," he proclaims, clunking the glass down. Wes shoots him an annoyed glare over his shoulder, but doesn't refrain from scooping scrambled eggs and toast onto a plate.

"Shut up and eat," the blond grumbles, not even bothering to reply, which means he thinks the comment was so completely stupid it doesn't even dignify acknowledgement. Travis grins into his plate and follows orders.

He's almost done eating when Wes asks, "Why were you drinking?"

Travis smirks, thinks _You are SO the wife_, and says, "That was very wifey. Did you have an apron when you were alive? One of those frilly ones?"

"I am _not_ the wife," Wes snaps, dropping the egg pan into the sink with an annoyed clatter. "And it wasn't frilly, it was a perfectly serviceable white one."

Travis laughs so hard that Wes gives him a death-glare, and it completely derails Wes from probing about Travis's drinking binge last night.

Which was kind of exactly the point.

**XXXX**

The thing is, there are some cases Travis just can't let go. Even if he's told to.

This is one of them.

He knows he's supposed to drop the case. He knows he's supposed to leave it alone, work on his new cases, and hope a lead comes up.

But Travis _knows_, okay, he knows Andrew Powers won't just disappear, not without saying goodbye to his brother first. Because Travis knows brothers, he _is_ a brother, and he knows that Nick and Andrew are tight-knit. Not only that, Andrew Powers is a _big_ brother, which means he won't leave without making sure his little brother is alright.

But it's all just a hunch. Travis can't do anything with just a hunch.

That's fine. Travis is stubborn, and he's only a cop when he's on duty.

Once he gets off work, he checks cars out from the motor pool—different cars each time, he's not stupid—and he parks a block away from Nick Power's house.

And he waits for Andrew to show.

**XXXX**

It works for three days.

Then he gets caught.

**XXXX**

"Are you an idiot?"

The captain is not pissed. The captain is completely, utterly furious. But his voice is completely calm, and his gaze is steady, and the only reason Travis _knows_ the captain is angry is because he can see it in the captain's eyes.

Travis almost thinks he'd prefer if it Sutton just yelled at him.

"Tell me, Marks, are you stupid?"

Travis looks at his shoes. "I don't think so, sir."

"Then_ why_," Sutton leans forward, voice rising, "were you caught sitting outside Nick Powers' home? They want to file harassment charges. I barely managed to talk them out of it. Why were you there?" He waits; Travis stares at his shoes. "Well?"

"I, uh…" Travis takes a fortifying breath and draws his detective composure around himself. "I was waiting for Andrew Powers, sir."

"Andrew Powers is in the wind."

"With all due respect, sir, I don't believe that."

Sutton's gaze is steady. "Explain."

Travis's shoulders slump, and he looks down at his hands. "I can't. I don't have any proof, it's just a feeling.

The captain studies him, eyes hard. "What kind of a feeling?" Travis looks up in surprise, and the captain's eyes soften a little. "You've had good hunches in the past, Marks. I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. So. Talk to me. What kind of feeling."

He laces his fingers together and sits up a little straighter. "Well, sir, they're brothers. And they're close, you can tell just by talking to Nick. Andrew will probably disappear, yeah, but he's not going to go before he lets his kid brother know he's alright. It's just not going to happen."

For a good minute and a half, there's no sound other than the trickle of the captain's water fountain.

Sutton lets out a breath. "I trust your gut feelings, Marks. I can have a patrol go through Powers' neighborhood, see if they catch Andrew Powers coming back to visit his brother. In the meantime, you're off the case."

"Captain, you can't—"

"I absolutely can, Marks!" The steel in Sutton's voice cuts Travis's protests off at the knees. "You're lucky I'm only taking you off the case. I could suspend you for that stunt!" He leans forward, pins Travis to his chair with his gaze. "I'll send a patrol through, but you. Are. Off. The. Case. And if you go anywhere near the Powers' home, a suspension will be _pleasant_ compared to what will happen. Do you understand?"

Travis clasps his hands together and forces out a tight, "Yes, sir."

**XXXX**

"He's right, you know?" Travis thunks the beer bottle down, staring gloomily at the countertop. "I'm _lucky_ I just got kicked off the case. But dammit, it's not enough."

Wes hums absently and fiddles with whatever he's making.

Travis slumps on his stool. "I mean, the patrols are better than nothing, but they're easy to get by too. Andrew Powers could visit his brother and be gone by the time the car comes around again. He's going to get away with murder, and there's nothing I can do to stop it."

Wes doesn't say anything. Travis is too drunk to try and figure out if the ghost is letting him ramble, or if he just doesn't care.

He chuckles sardonically, staring at the grey-suited back in front of him. "Too bad you can't go watch the house. An invisible stalker, that'd be perfect, right?"

"If only," Wes says dryly, which proves he is, at least, listening.

Travis half-seriously ponders the notion. "It might work, though. I mean, you're here because of your bloodstain, right? What if I just, like, cut a corner of the wallpaper and planted it at the Powers' house? Then you could stand there and watch and no one would know."

"That could work," Wes replies sarcastically, opening the fridge. "Or it could cut my ties to this plane and I'd disappear and be no use to you at all. But sure, if you want to try that, be my guest."

Travis groans and drops his head to the top of the island. "Dammit, don't say that. Now I can't even pretend it would work." He rolls his head, looking out the French doors to the backyard. "I don't want Andrew Powers to get away with this, but I can't _do _anything. What am I supposed to _do?_"

Wes turns, a thermos in one hand and a plastic bag of cut vegetables and fruits in the other. He thunks the thermos down in front of Travis's nose; Travis can smell the coffee.

"Don't get caught."

Travis stares at the other male and wonders if it's the alcohol that's making Wes's eyes glitter dangerously like that.

**XXXX**

There's a vacant house down the street from the Powers' place. Travis hides his bike in the back and sneaks inside, camping in the upstairs bedroom, which has a perfect view down the street.

He knows he could lose his job just by doing this, but he can't just sit by and let Andrew Powers get away.

Plus, he's spurred on by Wes's fervent, "You can get him," as Travis left.

So he sits in the empty house, and he watches, and he waits.

Five more days pass. The patrols slow in frequency. Travis gets more exhausted, balancing a solo stakeout with his day job.

"Maybe I was wrong," he confesses, collapsing into bed. "Maybe Andrew ditched everything and is gone."

Wes stands in the doorway, and the force of his gaze sends shivers down Travis's spine. He's too tired to decipher that reaction.

"I have faith in you," Wes says, sounding even more distant than normal. "Have faith in your hunch."

For that reason alone, Travis returns to the vacant house the next night.

**XXXX**

It's nearly midnight when he sees movement down the street. Travis sets down the baggie of carrots (seriously, Wes, healthy doesn't have to mean _boring_) and pick up the binoculars. After a minute, he grins.

Andrew Powers is climbing up the side of the house, towards his brother's room.

"I knew it," he whispers to himself, quickly packing up all his stuff. Silent as a mouse, he creeps downstairs, making an anonymous call to the police while he peers out the dining room window at the Powers' street.

He stays until he sees the red and blue lights of the patrol at the end of the street.

By the time they arrest Andrew Powers, Travis is back home and curled up in bed.

**XXXX**

Wes isn't around to share the good news, but Travis doesn't think that's weird until he wakes up.

He goes to work wondering if something is wrong with his roommate, and wondering how he should go about fixing it.

**XXXX**

"You wanted to see me, Captain?"

Sutton waves at the chair in front of his desk, not looking up. "Have a seat, Marks."

Travis sits.

Captain Sutton folds his hands in front of him and stares at Travis. Travis resists the urge to fidget. He's done nothing wrong. Nothing that can be proven, at least.

Sutton sighs. "We got caught Andrew Powers. He returned to his home to say goodbye to his brother." The captain narrows his eyes. "There was an anonymous tip. You know anything about that, Marks?"

Travis opens his eyes wide and puts on his best innocent face. "No, sir, but what a lucky break."

Captain hums, one eyebrow going up. "Civilians are _so_ helpful, aren't they?"

Travis stands. "If that's all, sir…?"

"Marks." Travis pauses, looks at the captain. Sutton is frowning, but his eyes are approving. "Good job." A pause. "Don't do it again."

Travis can't help but grin. "No promises, sir."

**XXXX**

Travis's intention is to go straight home, find Wes, and drag him out of whatever hole he's shoved his incorporeal ass into. He still doesn't know exactly how he's supposed to cheer Wes up—if Wes is even sulking because he's depressed, because Travis doesn't know, it's not like he's _seen_ the ghost since last night—but he's determined to do his best.

Unfortunately, his intentions are thoroughly derailed by his coworkers. Randi and Kendall ambush him as he's leaving and drag him off to the bar to celebrate.

It's not that he doesn't appreciate it. They always celebrate with drinks when one of them solves a big case. (Once, Travis caught a double-murderer the same day Randi found enough evidence to finally convict a guy she'd been trying to get for six months. That was a fun celebration. Travis was pretty sure he'd still been drunk the next morning.)

Today, though, he just wants to get home and figure out what's up with Wes. Which, he supposes, goes to show just how much the ghost means to him.

But Kendall and Randi are persistent, and if he tries to leave before they even have one drink, the two women will ask annoying, probing questions and probably figure out things he's not quite ready to reveal yet, so he figures he'll have a few drinks, just to get them off his back. Maybe then he can bow out early and get home without being subjected to their scrutiny.

"I'm only going to have a couple of drinks, guys," he informs them as they sit. The two women share knowing grins.

"You want to get home to your boyfriend?" Kendall teases, waving for a pitcher.

"He's not my boyfriend," Travis says, and he doesn't blush at all, thank you very much. (Having a dark complexion is a wonderful thing sometimes.)

"Are you sure?" Randi asks, grinning at him. "I seem to recall a certain someone saying that he'd found _the one_." She says the last two words in a spooky movie-trailer voice.

Travis rolls his eyes and shoves her shoulder. "Shut up. Both of you. Congratulate me on the case I just solved and stop talking about my non-existent relationship with my non-corporeal roommate."

They oblige.

A couple of drinks turns into a handful, which turn into four hours sitting and laughing with the two women. By the time their third pitcher of beer is empty, Travis is happily buzzed and listing in his seat.

He totally forgets why he wanted to get home so fast in the first place.

**XXXX**

It's after midnight when Travis staggers up the sidewalk. He's more than a little drunk and he absolutely blames Kendall and Randi. It's completely their fault.

The house is dark. He fumbles for his keys as he tries to think about whether this is weird or not. It's maybe a little weird, he decides, because Wes usually leaves a light on when Travis is coming home late.

Wes. Wes! That's right, he was going to tell Wes something! It was important, about…about…the case! And Andrew Powers! Yeah!

Now he's eager to get inside, and in his haste, he drops his keys. Picking them up is a challenge when he's this drunk, but he manages. Somehow. Getting the keys in the lock is an even greater challenge he does not manage.

"Wes!" Travis hollers, pounding on the door. "Let me in, dammit!"

He doesn't hear the door unlock, but he tries the doorknob anyway and look, Wes left it open for him, isn't that nice.

There's a niggling itch in the back of his mind that says this is weird, Wes was a lawyer when he was alive and he wouldn't just _leave_ the front door open, but that little itch is drowning in booze so he goes inside.

The light in the front hall flickers.

Travis grins stupidly at the ceiling. "Honey, I'm hoooome," he sings in an off-key, staggering inside. "Did you miss me?" He sheds his jacket and drops it on the floor by the couch. He means to drop it _on_ the couch, but he misses. This seems incredibly funny.

The lamp beside the couch flickers insistently. Travis scowls and waves a hand at it. "Aw, stop your nagging. I'll get it later. Shut up." He makes his drunken way to the kitchen, where he plans to down about six glasses of water and a couple of Ibuprofen. Maybe if he's lucky he can counteract this hangover before it even starts.

It doesn't occur to him that this is strange, Wes flickering lights at him. He hasn't really done that since he showed himself to Travis. But he's sloshed and also Wes has been hiding since last night so why would that be weird at all? It makes sense right now.

The light above the stove flickers. On off on off on off. It takes a long moment for Travis to realize it's a pattern. To be fair, he's _completely_ drunk right now.

Travis stops where he stands, frowning at the light. "What? What's that supposed to mean…?"

He studies the lights, frowning, trying to parse it out. Flash flash flash, flaaash, flaaash, flaaash, flash flash flash. Three little flashes, three long flashes, and three more little flashes, which is…hey, that's Morse code. SOS. Why would Wes be telling him _that_?

He's too late on the uptake. He figures it out just as he hears a rustle of clothing behind him.

As he turns, the lamp from the side table meets the side of his head, and everything goes dark.

**XXXX**

Travis wakes. This is a pleasant surprise.

The less pleasant surprise is waking tied to a chair with a throbbing headache that's only partially due to the alcohol in his system. When he tilts his head, blood drips into his lap. Head wound and possible concussion. Always fun.

He tests his bonds. Goddamit, those are his own handcuffs, threaded through the back of the chair so he can't slip free even if he wants to. (Newsflash: he does.) And the cuffs are snapped tight, biting into his wrists, so if he struggles too much he'll rip his skin to shreds.

The good news is that he's a lot more sober than he was walking up the drive. The bad news is he's nowhere near sober _enough_. He's going to get killed in his own home because he's a little too buzzed to be his best. What a way to go. God, his head hurts.

He groans, and something moves by the wall. Some_one_.

Nick Powers steps into view.

"You?" Travis shifts, twisting his hands. Who cares if he gets a shiny new set of scars on his wrists. Given who his attacker is, he needs to get out and defuse the situation _now_.

"Are you really so surprised, detective?" Nick asks, stepping forward. He sneers at Travis. "After what you did to Andrew?"

"Andrew was taken in by an anonymous call, I had nothing to do wit—"

Pain blossoms across his face. He sees stars. It takes an effort not to cry out; Travis doesn't one-hundred percent succeed.

"You think I'm stupid?" Nick's got Travis's gun, Travis sees when his vision clears. This situation just got a lot more dangerous.

"You think I don't know it was you?" Nick continues. He starts waving the gun about. The safety is still on. That's the only reassuring aspect of this situation. "You've had a vendetta against Andrew from the start!"

"Andrew murdered his girlfriend and assaulted her roommate!" It's not the best idea to shout at the angry guy holding a gun on him, but Travis has never been known for thinking his actions through beforehand. "It's not a vendetta! I brought those girls justice by calling that tip in!"

Nick lets out an incoherent yell, driving his fist into Travis's stomach. Thankfully, it wasn't the hand holding the gun. It still knocks the air out of Travis's lungs and leaves him reeling.

"You're going to pay for this." Nick paws at the gun, fumbling in his anger to unlock the safety. "I'm going to make you pay for this."

Travis takes a few breaths. His head clears enough for some of the anger to dissipate. Not all of it, but enough for him to try and talk the young man down, which he really should have been doing from the start. But, again, that's not really one of the things he's known for.

"Nick," Travis coughs, "You don't have to do this. You can still walk away. Assault is a much lighter sentence than murder."

The other man snorts, gets the safety unlocked, and points the weapon at Travis.

"Nick, listen to me." Desperate now; he doesn't want to die. "You think I have a vendetta? That will be _nothing_ compared to an entire police squad going after a cop-killer. They'll be after you for the _rest of your life_."

That makes Nick hesitate. For a second, Travis thinks he's gotten through.

But it only lasts a moment and then Nick's face hardens. He levels the gun at Travis's head. "It'll be worth it.

Travis twists the handcuffs, feels blood slick on his wrists. But it's not enough, he won't get free in time, oh god, he's going to die—

He closes his eyes.

**XXXX**

_Crash!_

Nick jumps. Travis jumps and thanks his lucky stars the gun didn't go off. They both look towards the back bedroom.

"What was that?" Nick demands. "Did you call someone?"

"Really?" Travis snaps back, because when diplomacy doesn't work, it's always good to have a fallback. "_When_ did I have time to call someone?"

Nick glares at him, but decides that investigating the noise is more important than beating Travis up. Got to make sure his assault isn't interrupted before the fun really begins, right? He heads down the hall with Travis's gun in hand.

The air chills as soon as Nick is out of sight, and an annoyed voice hisses beside his ear, "Sarcasm?" Really?"

Travis relaxes. _I knew I could count on you_, he wants to say, but he's afraid that's a little too sappy for the situation. "What'd you break?" he asks instead, twisting the cuffs.

Ice fingers move across his bleeding flesh. "The lamp in your bedroom," Wes says, and Travis can hear the frown in his voice. "Stop that. Where's the key?"

"Nick took it. But I have paperclip in my boot." Travis sticks his right leg out. "You owe me a lamp, asshole."

"Your boot?" Wes questions, ignoring the lamp comment.

Travis foot goes numb in an instant as Wes sticks his hand _through_ the leather and finds the paperclip hidden in the toe. "Never know when you'll get bound in cuffs, and assailants rarely take your boots," Travis answers, wincing as the cold touch moves up his leg. The paperclip slides along the leather, up and out clenched in Wes's ghostly fist, and dear _god_ that's the coldest thing he's ever felt.

"Do you get kidnapped a lot?" Wes murmurs conversationally, kneeling behind the chair.

"Now's not the time for storytelling," Travis hisses, twisting to watch the blonde.

"No, it's not," a third voice says, followed by the sound of the gun being cocked.

They both go still.

**XXXX**

Nick steps into the living room. The gun in his hand wavers a little with nerves, but the barrel is aimed right at Wes. "You. Stand up, hands out."

Wes doesn't move.

"Hey! Get up!"

"Wes?" Travis hisses out of the corner of his mouth. "Maybe you should stand up."

"Why?" Wes questions back, continuing to fiddle with the clip. "Even if he shoots, it won't hurt me."

"Yeah, but if it goes through you, it'll hit _me_, and I'm not in the mood to get shot right now, okay? So please. Stand. Up."

Wes sighs, but he stands. "You are so breakable," he grumbles, covertly sliding the paperclip into Travis's palm as he rises. Travis clenches his fists and hopes Nick didn't notice.

"Over here," Nick waves Wes away from Travis's chair. Wes obliges, hands out to his side and looking vaguely bored with the whole thing. Well, it's good to know the already-dead guy doesn't have anything to worry about in this situation. If only the rest of them could be so lucky.

Travis can see calculations running through the blonde's eyes. He's far enough away now that even if Nick shoots, it won't hit Travis. _Not yet, Wes_, Travis pleads silently. _Not yet. Wait for the right moment_. Either Wes picks up on Travis's mental energy or he comes to the same conclusion, because he doesn't do anything.

"Who are you, then?" Nick demands, gesturing with the gun. "His partner?"

Wes snorts. "Not exactly."

"Then who are you?"

"I was—I'm a lawyer."

Travis winces, but Nick doesn't notice the past tense. Unfortunately, Wes's answer is exactly the wrong thing to say. Nick's grip on the gun tightens.

"A lawyer, huh? So he arrests my brother and you put him away for life? That how it works?"

Wes freezes. The temperature drops. Nick shivers, but doesn't seem to otherwise care. Travis curses, and it comes out in a breath of white fog. He unbends the paperclip and works frantically to get it in the hole of the cuffs.

"Brother?" Wes's voice is thin, wind whistling through a tunnel, and his eyes are looking at something a thousand miles away.

_He's been weird this whole case_, Travis realizes, _whenever I mentioned two brothers_. That can't be good. Travis struggles to get the stupid paperclip in the damn cuff unseen.

"Yeah, my brother," Nick snarls, because he apparently has no sense of either danger or self-preservation. "Andrew."

Wes lowers his hands to the side.

"Hey! Hands up!"

The ghost flickers in and out.

Nick reels back. "What the…"

"I'm sorry." Wes is looking right at Nick, but Travis is pretty certain he isn't seeing him at all. That's confirmed with Wes's next words. "Anthony, I'm so sorry about your brother."

"Anthony?" Nick echoes. "Who the hell is Anthony?"

"This is Nick, Wes," Travis says helpfully. The damn cuffs are slick with blood and it's making it hard to hold the paperclip. "Remember Nick? My nice assaulter?"

For a second, Travis thinks he's broken through. Wes turns a looks at him, face blank.

Then he flickers, like a video resetting, back in the same spot, same position. He's looking right through Nick at someone else completely.

"I'm sorry. Anthony, I'm so sorry about your brother."

And it clicks. All the pieces fall into place and they are in so much more shit than he thought. "Shit, shit, fuck, _shit_." Travis scrambles to unlock the cuffs. It all makes sense now. A young man with a gun, angry about his brother being put in jail. Wes was weird this whole case because it was too close to home, too close to his own death.

And now Wes is reliving it. Re-dying it. Whatever. He's repeating it, and Travis has watched enough ghost movies to know that's never a good sign.

"What the _hell_?" Now Nick looks spooked, backing up against the wall as Wes flickers and starts the third loop.

"I'm sorry. Anthony, I'm so sorry…"

"Nick," Travis says over the ghost's words, calmer than he feels. "You need to get out of here." Finally, _finally_ the lock clicks and Travis's left cuff pops open. Travis shakes his hand free and starts unthreading the chain through the back of the chair.

Flick—flicker. "I'm sorry. Anthony, I'm so sorry about your brother."

"What the hell is going _on_?"

"Long story short?" Travis stands, cuffs dangling from his right hand, and moves towards the kid on the wall. "He's a ghost, and this is not good."

"A _ghost_?" Nick shies away, staring at Travis like he's crazy and the evidence isn't right in front of his eyes. "Ghosts don't exist."

"You're arguing about this _now_?" Travis waves a hand at the fluttering spectre. "Look, I have seen how this movie ends, and it's not good. You have to leave _right now_."

Flick—flicker. "I'm sorry. Anthony, I'm so sorry abo—"

"Shut the fuck up!"

The gun goes off as Travis is reaching for Nick. He doesn't know if it's because of him or if Nick just loses control. It really doesn't matter.

The shot goes wide to the side, but Wes's head jerks back. A red circle the size of a dime forms in the center of his forehead; the back of his head explodes in brain and blood that disappears before it hits the ground.

Nick makes a small, terrified noise. Travis shifts so he's between the young man and the possibly vengeful spirit before him.

"Nick," Travis whispers, low and urgent. "Give me the gun and go. Move slow. No sudden moves." There's a tension in the air, like the split second in a firefight right before everyone starts shooting. One wrong move and this will end very badly.

Wes doesn't move, suspended in mid-death with an exploded skull. Unfortunately, Nick doesn't move either.

"Nick!" He doesn't want to take his eyes off the ghost, but he risks a glance over his shoulder. The kid is frozen to the spot in terror, blank incomprehension on his face.

Travis totally understands. If he could, he would happily curl up on his bed and hide under the covers for a few hours (or days). He's been living with a ghost for months now but this right here is some truly creepy shit. But he's a cop. His priority right now is to get the civilian out of here and deal with the threat. His own fear will have to wait.

He steps back, slides the gun out of Nick's unresisting hand. The young man whimpers. It'd be funny if it were only a movie.

"I'll distract him," Travis murmurs, sliding down the wall, deeper into the house. "You head out the back door." He can only hope Nick gets over his paralysis and listens.

When he's five feet away (i.e. as far as he can go without being in another room, it's not that big of a house), Travis clears his throat. He just has to talk his roommate down from a ledge. He's done it before. He can handle it.

"Wes?" Travis calls in his best non-threatening voice. "You still in there, buddy?"

The ghost slowly brings his head around and stares at Travis. Blood runs from the bullet hole in his forehead. His eyes are black as night and empty as death.

Travis flinches. "Aw, fuck."

Everything goes to hell.

**XXXX**

_He was a lawyer, my Wesley. He was very, very good at what he did. And because he was very good at his job, he made enemies._

_There was a young man whose brother my husband put in jail. And this young man was so very angry at my husband for what happened to his brother._

_Almost a month after the trial, the young man broke into our home. He had a gun, and he shot my husband, right there in his office._

_The policeman said I was lucky, that I could have been killed as well if I'd been at home. But my husband was _dead._ I didn't feel lucky._

**XXXX**

In all the months Travis has lived with Wes, he's never been afraid of the ghost. Freaked out a few times, sure. Upset with, yes. Annoyed by, most definitely. But never afraid of. True evil stares at him every week on the job, and Wes is an asshole but he's not _evil_.

This, right now? This is not fear. This is worry and concern over Nick and a little bit of pants-pissing terror. This is nothing so tame as _fear_.

It's not like Wes is even _doing_ anything. He's just standing there, staring at Travis with eternity in his eyes, and eternity is death.

There's a stillness in the air, like staring into the barrel of a gun, but if Wes was on the other end of the gun Travis wouldn't be worried. He knows Wes wouldn't hurt him.

Travis is pretty sure the thing standing in front of him isn't really Wes anymore, and _that's _what scares him.

He doesn't dare move. It's not just fear keeping him in place, it's the lizard part of his brain perking up and saying, _Stay still, it won't chase you if you don't move_. So he takes shallow breaths and doesn't move, and for the moment it seems to be working. Travis doesn't have any plan _beyond_ standing here not moving, but if he waits long enough he's sure he'll come up with something.

Nick Powers ruins Travis's brilliant not-moving plan by moving.

Travis notices it, just a flash in the corner of his eye, and he looks over to see Nick heading for the back door, intent on outrunning the ghost.

Wes spots Nick moving too. And the thing about outrunning a ghost is that _it never works_.

Wes blinks away. One moment he's there, the next he's across the room, standing in front of the back door and directly in Nick's line of escape. The young man skids to a halt, yelping in fear, and Wes just stares at him with that empty, soulless gaze.

"Oh, for the love of—" Travis darts after the kid. _Now_ he decides to move. Yeah, that worked out well, didn't it?

Travis grabs Nick and hauls the kid behind him, putting his own body between the civilian and the ghost. He doesn't know how much good it will do, seeing as how he's more than once seen Wes stick his entire hand through objects, plus Wes has got that freaky teleportation thing going on, but he'll do what he can.

Nick seems content to let Travis stand between him and the phantom. Good enough for now.

Wes is between them and the back door, and the front door is too far away to make it before the ghost gets there. Travis's brain races, and he tries to buy them some time.

"Wes." Last chance. Appeal to the human side. It's worked in the movies. Not often. A few times. If he's remembering correctly. "Wes, this isn't you. Come on back, buddy, and we'll work this all out."

Wes stares right through him. He opens his mouth. Travis doesn't know what he's expecting, but he tenses anyway.

There's a sound. It's like wind whistling through a crack in a window, but there's no window. There's only Wes, standing here with his mouth open. Which would be fine, except the sound is accompanied by _actual _wind moving through the room, picking up speed as the sound gets louder. Travis braces himself, ignoring the air tugging at his clothes.

Underneath the whistling wind is a truly inhuman wailing that sends a cold chill down Travis's spine. He stares at the ghost and wishes he'd followed on up those exorcisms Kendall offered all those months ago.

_It'll be fine, I told her. Yeah, that was smart. First rule of horror movies, even the nice ghosts will go postal with the right trigger._

And, unfortunately, Travis is standing right between this ghost and this ghost's particular trigger.

"Wes, _please_," he whispers, because it's all he has left.

The ghost throws his head back and _screams_.

**XXXX**

The problem, Travis muses as winds violently slam him against the wall, is that he really didn't expect this to happen. That's not like him. He's genre savvy enough that he ought to have had prepared exorcisms in place the moment he found out about the ghost in his home. It's the first rule of spirits; they always go bad in the end.

But he didn't, because…why?

Because he got to know Wes. He got along with Wes, to the point that he wished Wes was a living, breathing person. He almost, for the most part, loved Wes. Possibly. He's still working that out.

And if he had to prepare something like an exorcism, the fantasy would die. He'd remember that Wes had died a long time ago, and that would be that. If he just kept pretending, then he'd almost forget, and then maybe…

_Stupid_, Travis scolds himself, _incredibly stupid. Falling in love with a ghost. Stupidest decision you could possibly make, Marks._

And now said ghost is hell-bent on getting through him to tear a civilian apart.

And Travis is completely unprepared.

He wind slams him into the side table holding the gramophone hard enough that he hears something crack. The table goes down and Travis hits the floor hard. A second later the gramophone follows, crashing hard on his wrist and Travis can't hear the snap of bone but he _feels_ it, oh god how he feels it, pain lancing up his arm. He curls up, a strangled scream coming out of his throat and getting torn away by the gale.

"Wes, you gotta _stop_!" he hollers, but the words are snatched away. He can't even hear himself.

This scares him. Travis has never been scared of Wes but _this_, this right here, it terrifies him down to his core, because he can't stop him, he can't control him, he can't do _anything_.

Travis has been out of control a lot in his life, but this is beyond anything he's ever known.

He looks up, squinting against the lashing winds. Wes is standing, no, _looming_ over Nick's prone body, flickering and sparking like a live wire, and it makes Travis go cold. He can't even _imagine_ what Wes is going to do in this state, but Nick doesn't deserve any of it. He's just a stupid kid, he didn't sign up to get…mauled by an angry ghost, or whatever Wes is planning to do to him. Travis doesn't know, but he's seen enough movies to know it never ends well.

"Wes, dammit, _stop_." Gritting his teeth, Travis hauls himself to his feet, arm tucked against his chest. Maybe if he doesn't move it it won't hurt.

And maybe if he keeps trying, Travis will get through.

The wind pushes against him, trying to drag him away from the ghost and his victim. Travis throws all his weight against the invisible gale, inching forward. _Not fast enough, not gonna get there in time…_

Wes blinks from a standing position to a kneeling position. As Travis watches, he plunges his hand in Nick's chest. Nick screams and thrashes, and the expression on the ghost's face doesn't change. It makes Travis cold.

"Wes!" Another few inches stolen, and Travis throws himself into the storm, clawing at the air like it might give him some purchase. "Wes, _stop! _You're killing him!"

Wes's hand comes out of Nick's chest. The kid stops thrashing, going still on the floor, and Travis honestly doesn't know if Wes killed him, he can't tell from here. He gains a few more steps, he's only a few feet away…

And then Wes looks up.

_Wes_ looks up.

The black empty void of death in his gaze flickers, and Travis sees blue like ice, pained and sorrowful and looking just as terrified as Travis feels right now, low in his gut. There's a part of Travis that wants to reach out, wrap Wes in his arms and tell him everything is going to be alright.

(That wouldn't be possible even if Wes _were_ in control.)

"_Travis."_

The storm still rages, but Travis hears Wes's voice, a whisper carried on a thread of wind right to his ear. Wes is still staring at him, but the black is creeping into his eyes again, void taking over soul, death eating away the facsimile of life, and Travis knows they don't have much time at all.

"_Travis," _Wes whispers, shuddering as he tries to fight for himself, _"you have to stop me."_

"I'm trying!" Travis hollers, lurching against the wind once more. "What do you think I'm doing here?"

"_No," _the ghost whispers, voice strong even as his form hunches over. _"You can't get to me. You have to stop me."_

"_How?!"_ Travis wails, lurching forward.

But there's no answer. The ghost looks up and Wes is gone, eyes empty once more, and Travis braces himself.

The spirit—wraith? poltergeist? what do you call an angry ghost with no semblance of reason anymore?—opens his mouth and screams again, and Travis truly isn't surprised when he goes flying through the air once more. He has the presence of mind to tuck his broken wrist against his chest and curl into a ball, which means it only hurts a _little_ bit of a ton when he lands.

When the pain has receded to a dull throbbing, he climbs to his knees. Nick is screaming again, Wes's hand in his chest, and Travis is clear on the other side of the room.

Travis looks around frantically, trying to come up with…he doesn't even know. He needs a plan, but how is he supposed to fight a ghost?

A moment, he thinks desperately. That's all they need. Just long enough to get away.

Then he sees his gun, tucked up against the wall, thrown by the winds and Wes's rage.

_Stop me_, Wes had said.

Travis sees his gun, and he thinks, _Oh, you clever bastard_.

He lunges for the gun, grabbing it and bringing it up. The ghost doesn't notice, doesn't even look at him, totally intent on torturing Nick to death.

The ghost leans over the boy, and right behind him are two very large, expensive French doors.

"_Even if he shoots, it won't hurt me."_

"_Yeah, but if it goes through you…"_

Travis does his best to aim in angry squalls with one arm, and he takes a long, slow breath.

_Stop me_, Wes had said.

Travis thinks _I will_ and _I'm sorry_ and squeezes the trigger.

The winds in the room continue to whirl in a frenzy, but the bullet travels through them, straight as an arrow. Travis doesn't have time to wonder why, because he's running, following the path of the bullet. He squeezes three more shots as he moves, and when the gun clicks emptily he tosses it to the side. No time to worry about his weapon beyond that.

The first bullet passes right through Wes's head. It doesn't do anything, Travis wasn't expecting it to—it continues through the ghost's skull and hits the French door. But it makes Wes freeze, the way he froze after Nick misfired, and Travis _was_ hoping for that. Wes goes still as a statue, mouth open in a soundless wail.

Two of the next three bullets go through the spirit's incorporeal form, the last missing him entirely, but Wes jerks three times like they'd all been direct hits, his hand rising out of Nick's chest.

And then Travis is there.

He plunges _through_ Wes, gritting his teeth against the numbing cold (_cold_ isn't enough of a word, this is _beyond_ cold, this is the void of space and the absence of life all rolled into one), and using all his momentum, he grabs the front of Nick's shirt and takes them to the French doors. His wrist screams at him, spots exploding in front of his eyes, but he can't take a moment to stop.

_Stop me_, Wes had said, and Travis doesn't know how to make Wes stop completely, but he knows how to make Wes stop hurting them.

Because the spirit's winds have only raged inside the living room, and Wes can't go outside.

He hits the French doors at a stumble, but the bullets cracked the glass enough that it shatters under his weight. Nick flops over the threshold with him, limp and unconscious, and as Travis falls he almost wants to do the same. But not yet, he can't yet, because they're both still halfway in the house and that's enough for Wes to drag them in if he tries.

Sheer force of will is all that keeps him from passing out as he crawls onto the deck, dragging Nick out of the house. It's only a few feet but it feels like miles, and the second the boy's shoes clear the threshold he stops because he honestly doesn't think he can do it anymore.

There's only an inch of space between Nick and the house, but that's enough. That's all they need.

The spots in his eyes are getting more persistent, but Travis sees Wes appear in the doorway. Blood still drips down his forehead, and his skin is bone white, but one of his eyes is blue and there's a horribly sad smile on his face.

"I'm sorry, Travis," the ghost whispers, and even though the winds are still whipping inside—he can see his stuff being carried by the gusts—the night is still, and the words carry clear as day. "I am so sorry, Travis."

"N-not your fault," Travis gasps, swaying. He looks at the kid in front of him. The adrenaline is crashing, leaving him too exhausted to even glare at the damn brat that started this all, but he tries to anyway.

"That doesn't make it better." Travis blinks some of the white spots away, and now both of Wes's eyes are blue. The ghost puts his hand in the doorway, palm flat like he's pressed against glass when there's none there. "Travis. I'm so sorry."

And then he disappears, fading out in front of Travis, and that makes him sit upright. He's seen Wes blink from place to place and he's seen Wes flicker insubstantially, but he's never seen Wes just _fade_ before, and he doesn't like the implications.

But moving so fast makes his head spin, and his body screams all its aches at him.

He passes out before he can even call Wes's name.

**XXXX**

He wakes briefly, blinking muzzily at the night sky. The gurney he's on passes through the front yard, and he can almost see a crowd of onlookers in the corner of his eye.

"Travis!"

He tries to turn his head, but he can't, it's locked in place. Not a problem though, because Emma leans over him, trotting alongside the gurney. The red-and-blue lights strobe, changing the angles of her face, going from questioning to anxious and back again.

"Doc," he croaks, reaching out. She grabs his hand, and he squeezes. "Check on my…cactus…for me, yeah?"

Her face goes blank. "Cactus?"

"Cactus." Travis can't turn his head, but he flicks his eyes towards the house. "In my house. Check…on it."

"Oh." Her face clears, comprehension dawns. "Yes. Your cactus. Of course." She gives his hand a squeeze before releasing it, stepping back as the paramedics lift him into the ambulance.

He closes his eyes, just for a moment, as the doors shut.

It's the last thing he remembers for a while.

**XXXX**

He wakes in the hospital.

Words blur over his head. Grade three concussion. Stitches in his back (crashing through a window will do that do you). Fractured ulna. Dozens of bruises, contusions, and abrasions.

Travis closes his eyes against the barrage and wishes he were home.

**XXXX**

It takes two days for the concussion to abate enough so he can give an account of what happened. Even so, he gives a highly edited version of events that involves an angry young man and a fight, and nowhere does he mention the word 'ghost'.

His first non-family visitor is the captain. Sutton sits down in the visitor's chair with a grave look on his face as he listens to Travis's _totally truthful absolutely what happened no lying here_ account and doesn't say a word until he's done.

Sutton turns off the tape recorder, tucks it away, and leans forward. "What really happened, Travis?"

Travis chuckles, a little, even though it makes him ache all over. "What, you don't believe me, cap?"

"I've seen the inside of your house, Marks. A fight with a nineteen-year-old kid wouldn't cause that kind of damage."

"It was a really intense fight."

"Mm-hm." Sutton gives him the stink-eye, but there's nothing he can say or do that will make Travis tell the whole truth. He trusts Kendall and Randi, that's why he spilled the beans to them. Not to say he doesn't trust the captain, but Sutton is his superior. If Travis starts talking about ghosts, Sutton would _have_ to do something about it, as his duty. Travis can't risk it.

So he sighs and leans back against the inclined plane of the hospital bed. "A _really_ intense fight. Speaking of, how is Nick? I want to charge that kid with assault so fast his head will spin."

Sutton's face shifts. "Nick is in the ICU."

The smirk freezes on Travis's face. "Is he okay?" Oh god, how could he have forgotten, Wes stuck his entire _hand_ in Nick's chest.

"He'll be fine," Sutton assures him. "The doctors say he should be out of the ICU in a few days, a week at most."

"Oh. Good." Travis relaxes back on the bed again.

The stink-eye returns. "They say he suffered cardiac arrest." There's a significant pause. "A healthy young man had a heart attack."

"Well," Travis chuckles nervously, "you know what they say about fatty foods and whatnot. Kids these days need to watch what they're eating."

"Right." The older man's eye narrow suspiciously. "Anyway. The Powers wanted to charge _you_ with assault—"

"Me?! What did _I_ do?!"

"—making claims of police brutality."

"_What?!_"

"However," Sutton says, holding up a hand against Travis's outraged squawk, "I pointed out that their son broke into one of my officer's home and assaulted him. They backed down pretty quickly after that."

Travis breathes a sigh of relief. The last thing he needs is to get _sued_.

"There will still be an inquiry," Sutton continues, "but for the most part I think you'll be safe enough."

"Well, that's a relief."

Sutton stands, leans over to gently pat his shoulder. "Rest up, Marks. You're one of our best. Can't have you out of commission for too long."

Travis gives the captain a weary smile. "Thanks, cap."

**XXXX**

Kendall comes by his third day in the hospital, when the concussion is relieved but the painkillers are still making him a little out of sorts. Her face is tight, and she holds a tape recorder in her hands.

Travis feels a clenching in his gut. "What's that?"

She takes a breath, looks down at her hands. "One of the dispatch calls."

He doesn't even need her to explain. He knows what she's talking about just by the look on her face.

"No."

"Travis—"

"Kendall, _no_."

She places the recorder on the counter, far enough away that Travis will have to rip out a few stitches to get to it. He almost thinks it'd be worth it.

She stands, gives him a look that's not quite pity and not quite sympathy. Something in between.

"I think you should listen to it, Travis."

She presses play and leaves the room.

Travis closes his eyes.

**XXXX**

"911, what is your emergency?"

"—_chzzk— _help him, you have _—chzzk—_"

"I'm sorry, sir, there appears to be some interference. You'll have to speak up."

"I didn't mean to hurt him, _—chzzk— _help him."

"Sir, someone is hurt?"

"I didn't mean to _—chzzk— _out the window, I _—chzzk— _so mad,I couldn't control my_—chzzk—_"

"Sir, what is your location?"

"He's _—chzzk— _grass. I was try_—chzzk— _protect him, but I just got _so mad_ and I_—chzzk—"_

"Protect from what? Sir, is there someone in the house with you?"

"I can't reach him _—chzzk— _get to him, he's just _—chzzk— _and I did this, I hurt him. I didn't _—chzzk—"_

"Sir, the police are on their way. I need you to stay on the line with me."

"—_chzzk— _sorry, so sorry, I didn't mean to. Please tell him I'm _—chzzk—_"

"Sir, can you hear me? You need to stay on the line."

"—_chzzk— _ry, sorry, so_—chzzk— _ry _—chzzk—_"

"Sir? Sir, are you still there?"

"—_chzzk—"_

"Sir? Can you still hear me?"

"—_chzzk—"_

[dialtone]

**XXXX**

Emma visits on his sixth day, when they're about ready to release him. She smiles at him from the doorway and doesn't say a word until they're in the car.

"Thanks for giving me a ride," he says, fingers tapping on his leg as they pull into the neighborhood. He ignores the way her eyes flick to his fingers.

"It's not a problem," she says smoothly, that calm, British professionalism laced in her voice. "It's not out of my way."

He chuckles, trying to lighten the mood. It doesn't work.

He stares out the window. Taps his leg some more.

Doesn't turn to her when he asks, "Have you been…have you seen him?"

She's silent too long. Long enough that he knows.

The car pulls in front of his home. Without a word, he climbs out, staring at the front door.

"I'm sorry, Travis," she says softly. He doesn't look at her. If he does, he might break.

He tosses her a wave over his shoulder and heads up the walk.

**XXXX**

From the first day, the house has never felt empty.

The house feels empty now.

Travis stands in the doorway and closes his eyes and absolutely does not tear up.

"You weren't supposed to be the one who left, you asshole."

**XXXX**

The best thing about having dozens of concerned and loving foster moms, dads, brothers, and sisters is that they're ready and willing to help at a moment's notice. Someone replaced the broken French doors while he was in the hospital, patched the holes in the drywall and replaced most of his broken stuff. By the time he gets home, there's nothing for him to do except sit back and let them coddle him.

The worst thing about having dozens of concerned and loving foster moms, dads, brothers, and sisters is that they surround him and don't let him go. For a week, he can barely think without someone shoving food in his face or wrapping him in yet another blanket. Honestly, he wants nothing more than for them to all leave him alone so he can mope in peace.

Eventually they do leave him alone, with strong admonishments to call if he needs anything, _anything at all_, don't even hesitate, and Travis is left alone with his thoughts in his empty house.

He takes a breath. Lets it out slowly.

"Wes."

Nothing. Not even the slightest trickle of a breeze.

Something in his chest aches.

Travis closes his eyes and lets his head drop against the back of the couch.

"Wes," he says to empty air, "it wasn't your fault."

The lights stay steady, and Travis feels hollow.

**XXXX**

He's put on desk duty for six weeks. Fine, whatever, it's not like Travis can go traipsing about in the field with a broken wrist anyway.

At any rate, he ends up spending two days at the office, churning through his paperwork because there's nothing else to do.

Then he takes a few of his many accumulated sick days—which, as it so happens, adds up to just about six weeks exactly—and goes home. He spends a day moping around the house, drinking and listening to jazz on the record player. (The side table is busted, but the gramophone itself, thankfully, didn't seem to suffer any damage. Maybe Wes didn't want to ruin something he enjoyed, even in the midst of a poltergeist fit. Who the hell knows.)

He spends another four days at the library, looking at microfiche copies of newspapers from the forties and fifties. There are quite a few articles of a certain up-and-coming lawyer carving his way through crime, and even a few quality pictures. He makes an absurd amount of copies, and tries not to feel like he's obsessing.

The second week of his leave, he takes his first step into the office. For a long time, he stares at the dark red stain on the wall, feeling that hollow ache in his chest again.

Finally, he picks up the wallpaper removal solution and gets to work.

**XXXX**

He finishes removing the wallpaper in two days.

Without the constant, annoyed comments in his ear, it seems to take no time at all.

All the same, it takes an eternity.

He throws all the wallpaper away. Chucks it away and vows to never think about it again, start with a clean slate.

Right before the trucks come to collect the garbage, he goes out with an X-acto knife and cuts out a three-foot square piece. He rolls the bloodstained paper up and tucks it away in the attic and definitely doesn't think about it.

It doesn't mean anything at all.

**XXXX**

"_I didn't mean to —chzzk— out the window, I —chzzk— so mad, I couldn't control my—chzzk—"_

"_He's —chzzk— grass. I was try—chzzk— protect him, but I just go so mad and I—chzzk—"_

**XXXX**

_Travis dreams._

_He stands in his living room, in the exact spot that he stood when he first met his ghost, and he can't move. All he can do is stand there, watching._

_Wes smiles sadly, hand on the doorknob. "It's better this way, Travis," he says, and his voice is reassuring but his eyes are broken and defeated. "You're better without me."_

_The words stick in his throat, but he croaks out, "No, I'm not." Ghost or not, Wes has been the best thing that's ever happened to Travis. Wes has made him happy, made him finally believe he can actually live with someone else without getting shaky and afraid. The circumstances don't matter. As long as Wes is there, Travis is _better.

"_You are," Wes says, and Travis can't tell if he's convincing himself or Travis. "You're so much better off without me." He continues to smile like it's breaking his heart, and Travis has never wanted to cry at another person's expression. Until now. "You'll find someone else and have little babies with them and you'll be happy."_

"_I won't," he denies hotly, and the anger is enough to loosen his feet, let him move one step forward. "You're special. It has to be you."_

_Wes just shakes his head, eyes never leaving Travis. "I ruin things, Travis. You'll see. You'll be so much better without me. You'll see." He opens the door._

_And before Travis can shout, or call out, or even say a single word, Wes is gone and the door closes quietly shut behind him._

_Now the paralysis leaves him, now he bolts forward, and he yanks the door open, stumbling outside. But there's no sign of Wes, no sign of anyone. Just himself, alone._

_The way it's always been._

_He sinks to his knees._

Travis wakes in his empty house, cold and dark and utterly silent, and he remembers.

Wes is gone. Not dead. Not untouchable.

Just _gone_.

Travis throws his arm over his eyes and takes a long, slow, deep breath.

If a tear slips out, he pretends not to notice.

**XXXX**

"How are you doing?"

Travis blinks at Emma, trash bags in hands, feeling slow and muggy and confused at being ambushed. "Fine," he answers shortly, his default. He's not fine. He suspects she knows that. But if he says it, she'll go away.

Except she's obviously had experience with difficult patients before, because she doesn't go away. "Travis," she says, with such authority in her voice that he looks up despite himself. She catches his gaze, her eyes warm and glittering with…not sympathy, he's so tired of sympathy, but _empathy_. "How are you doing?"

The bags in his hands suddenly feel heavy, and he's not sure if he recycled everything properly, that was always Wes, he was always so finicky about making sure bottles were separated and paper went in its own bag and he's just so _tired _of _everything_.

"I'm thinking about moving," he says, and the words surprise him, but at the same time, they don't.

It's not something he's been thinking about consciously, but the moment the he says it, it feels right.

Emma sighs and tucks her hands into her pockets. "I can't condone that."

He lets out a harsh chuckle, chucking the bags into the recycle bin and not really caring if he got it right or not. "I really don't think that's your call to make, Doc."

"You're grieving, Travis. It's never wise to make big decisions at a time like this. I know it doesn't feel it, but right now you're not thinking straight, and—"

"You know when I wasn't thinking straight?" Travis slams the lid on the trash bin and glares at her. "When I was living with a goddamn _ghost_ and thought that was _normal_. _That's_ when I wasn't thinking straight. Now he's gone and I'm _fine_, so I think I'm perfectly capable of making my own goddamn decisions!"

He's yelling by the end of it, but he can't stop, can't help himself, it all just comes pouring out. Emma takes it placidly, face calm, and when he's done she lets out a small breath.

"It's always hard, Travis, to lose a partner, but I advise my patients—"

"We weren't like that, and I'm not your patient," Travis snaps, harsher than he intends. He wants to apologize, but he can't bring himself to say the words. "I'm not in a relationship, so I'm not your fucking patient."

She watches him, gaze steady, and he feels like she can see right through his soul.

"Fine," she says, gently, and there's that goddamn empathy again, reaching into his heart and digging deep. "Then take my advice as a friend."

She takes a step towards him, one hand making an aborted motion, as though she meant to reach out and stopped herself.

"Think about _why_ you want to move, Travis. And then ask yourself if you're thinking clearly about your decision."

"I don't need to think about _why_, Doc."

"You do, Travis. You really do." That calm, unyielding gaze, staring straight through his soul. "Motivation is everything."

**XXXX**

"_I can't reach him —chzzk— get to him, he's just —chzzk— and I did this, I hurt him. I didn't —chzzk—"_

**XXXX**

Travis opens the browser window and stares at the blinking cursor for five minutes before exiting out of the screen.

He tries again the next night.

And the next.

And the next.

He can't bring himself to look for new houses, and he doesn't move away.

**XXXX**

At the end of six weeks, Travis goes back to work with a smile on his face. He greets everyone, makes a big deal out of being back, and throws himself into cases.

Kendall and Randi meet up with him for lunch. They don't talk about Wes, and they don't mention the night of the attack, and if they occasionally share glances that Travis isn't supposed to see, he pretends not to notice.

Things go back to normal.

Time passes.

**XXXX**

He starts bringing girls home again. Different girls each time, leading them through the house.

At first, he waits, longing for cold breezes that bring goosebumps to his skin and a disappointed, haughty glare, invisible except for the feeling on the back of his neck.

Soon enough, he stops expecting it to happen.

He never forgets why he was expecting it in the first place.

**XXXX**

"—_chzzk— sorry, so sorry, I didn't mean to. Please tell him I'm —chzzk—"_

**XXXX**

One day, Travis looks up and realizes it's been almost four months since the attack. He takes a breath, steels himself, and thinks about Wes.

There's hardly a twinge of pain. A constant dull ache, yes, but not the sharp, biting sting from the first few months.

Maybe he's moving on.

Heh. Right. Moving on.

That night, he climbs up into the attic and stares at a cut-out piece of wallpaper, and just _breathes_.

It doesn't mean anything. Clean slate and all.

They're just memories.

He takes the wallpaper with him when he goes back downstairs.

**XXXX**

"So? What do you think?"

"It's…interesting. In a…macabre, abstract sort of way."

Travis grins slowly, looking at the frame on the wall. "I know, right? It's kind of cool."

Emma gives the frame a thoughtful look, raises an eyebrow, and turns to him. "It's even more interesting once you forget that behind the glass is the remains of a dead man's blood and brain matter."

He knows what she's doing, what she's trying to do. But it's alright. He's fine, for real this time. He just tucks his thumbs in his belt loops and rocks back on his heels. "I know, right?" he repeats. He doesn't try to hide anything; he doesn't think it would work anyway.

Whatever she sees on his face seems to mollify her. Her own expression softens, and she puts a hand on his arm. There's that _empathy_ again, like she sees every thought in his head and she _understands_.

She turns back to the frame. "It's definitely an interesting piece. Sure to garner much conversation."

Travis chuckles, following her stare. "That is definitely true."

He painted the walls turquoise, a lighter shade than the original wallpaper color and one that doesn't burn his eyes when he sees it. All the shelves and desk have been replaced in their original spots.

And behind the desk, in a simple black frame, is an almost three-foot square of wallpaper, yellow and pink flowers obscured by a splattered, blood red stain.

"Are you hoping he'll come back?" Emma asks, and Travis doesn't look to see if she's watching the frame or himself. He figures it doesn't really matter.

"Maybe a little," he admits.

**XXXX**

The truth is, he's hoping for it a lot.

And he keeps hoping for it, even as the days move on.

The ache fades, but the hope doesn't.

**XXXX**

(There's a two-inch section missing from the square of wallpaper. It's an obvious gap in the corner, a deliberate piece of bloodstained wallpaper cut away from the whole.

Travis knows Dr. Ryan noticed. There's so little she doesn't notice.

She doesn't ask.)

**XXXX**

"_I was try—chzzk— protect him, but I just go so mad and I—chzzk—"_

"—_chzzk— sorry, so sorry, I didn't mean to. Please tell him I'm —chzzk—"_

"—_chzzk— ry, sorry, so—chzzk— ry —chzzk—"_

Motivation is everything.

**XXXX**

Five months and sixteen days after the attack, Travis wakes in the middle of the night and stares at the ceiling.

He blinks, runs his hand over his face, and thinks, _I'm an idiot_.

"Wes," he calls softly, and he doesn't get a response but that doesn't deter him. Somehow, he's certain Wes can hear him, wherever he is right now.

"Wes. Thank you."

_Motivation is everything._

—_sorry, so sorry, I didn't mean to. Please tell him—_

"I forgive you."

Travis closes his eyes and feels lighter than he has in almost half a year.

Right before he falls back asleep, he thinks he feels the softest of breezes brushes across his cheeks.

**XXXX**

"What do you think?" Travis asks the clerk at the convenience store, staring at the hot food counter. "A piece of greasy pizza, or a greasy Polish sausage?"

"Whatever, man, I don't really care," says the clerk, who hardly looks like he's old enough to be in high school, let alone working in a place that sells booze and cigarettes. Or maybe Travis is just getting old.

"Alright, greasy pizza it is," he decides, already pulling out his wallet.

A tingle crosses his neck, like a disapproving glare aimed at the back of his skull. But when he turns around, there's no one in the store.

He wants to dismiss it as a figment of his imagination, but that annoying thing called _hope_ flutters in his chest.

He turns back to the counter, biting his lip. "And toss in one of those giant churros, too."

The light above the counter flickers.

The clerk frowns, looking up. "Huh. Never done that before."

Travis can't quite hide his grin. "Yeah, you should probably get that looked at," he says, backing away from the counter. "See ya."

The clerk calls after him, "Wait, what about your food?"

Travis waves a hand over his shoulder, ducking out the door. "Think I'll try Lettuce Kingdom instead!"

His hands are shaking by the time he climbs into the squad car, and he can barely wrest his badge off his belt without dropping it. He turns the golden shield over, staring at the bloody, two-inch square taped to the back.

"Wes?" he whispers tentatively, heart pounding in his chest. If he's wrong, if he misread it, if he only thought he saw…

The air in the car goes ice cold. Travis can see his breath when he exhales.

And an irritated voice says, "Pizza? Really? Especially pizza that's been sitting under a heat lamp for five hours. I expected better of you, Travis."

Travis grins so wide he thinks he'll break his face in two, and something tight and painful eases in his chest. "Wes."

He turns, and Wes is there, looking as solid as he ever did. In that same plain grey suit, with those same coiffed blonde locks and that same annoyed scowl turned his way.

But there's a smile lurking in that sharp blue gaze, and beneath that, there's

_gratitudeaffectionsecuritytenderness_

and Travis clutches his badge to his chest.

"I'm not actually going to Lettuce Kingdom," he says, because everything else he wants to say is mushy and sappy and might make him cry.

Wes frowns, tapping his fingers against the dash, and he's so real and visible and _here_ that Travis doesn't even care that his arm would pass right through the man if he reached out.

"Why not? Lettuce Kingdom sounds healthy."

"It's also disgusting," Travis says, and he can't stop grinning like a fool.

He taps his thumbs on the steering wheel, looks at his hands and not at the incorporeal man beside him, because he's afraid the look on his face is getting progressively sappier with every second and he doesn't quite know how to contain it. "I, uh, I'm glad you didn't…you know." He waves a vague hand. "Move on."

"I thought about it." Wes runs his fingers over the dash, frowning pensively. "I did. There was a light and everything, and I thought about going there."

"But you didn't," Travis points out, Mr. Obvious asking for clarification, because Wes had every reason to leave but he _didn't _and Travis wants to know why.

"No." Wes takes a breath, looks at him. "No, I didn't."

And it's there, written on Wes's face plain as day because Wes is a _ghost_, he's nothing _but _soul and thought and emotion and apparently Travis isn't the only one grappling with feelings he's only sort of beginning to understand.

Travis swallows around a dry throat and he doesn't ask about Alex and he doesn't admit his own possible-feelings and he doesn't point out the impossible fact that they literally cannot touch. He doesn't point out any of the reasons he could use to nip this thing in the bud.

But he doesn't run away, either, and that means everything.

Wes drops his gaze, touching the stereo buttons, and not for the first time Travis wonders how much of that Wes is actually feeling, if he can actually experience touch or if he's just moving out of habit and nostalgia for the time he was alive.

"But," Wes says, voice composed because Wes may not be able to hide anything on his face but he can certainly hide it in his voice, carefully concealed behind layers of snark and apathy, "but then I thought about the state of my house if I left it alone in your care, and I just. I couldn't go." He shakes his head mournfully, like the thought is too dreadful to even contemplate.

Travis snorts, which is good because the other option would be to cry and Travis would like to avoid that. "Technically I think it's _my_ house."

Wes makes a disagreeing noise in his throat. Then he slants a sideways glance at Travis. "Well. I'm letting you live in the bedroom." He pauses, and Travis can see him running through the lexicon in his head, picking out the right words. "Maybe…it could be our house?"

And Travis has to swallow again. "Yeah. That…that could work." He nods, looks out the windshield because seriously, his emotions don't quite know what to do right now and he needs a moment to compose himself. "I, uh…if we're going to be housemates, I think we should establish some ground rules."

There's a touch on his hand, wispy and diaphanous, like touching fog. When Travis glances over, Wes is looking out the window, but his palm is casually resting inside of Travis's, flesh intertwined with smoke. It's not ice, not like the last time Wes stuck his essence through Travis's skin; it's warm and comforting and gentle.

"Yeah," Wes says, voice calm but Travis can see how he's fighting to keep his face still. "Yeah. Rules could be good." He peeks a look at Travis, quickly turns to the window when he sees Travis is watching. "We can talk later."

And it's not just rules they're going to talk about, Travis knows. They'll have to sit down and talk about the attack and the months of absence and this brand new thing fluttering between them. They have _so _much to talk about.

But they _can_ talk about it, because Wes is _here_. He's here and he didn't leave, and that's enough.

It's probably stupid, crazy idea, but Travis has always lived on the edge of reckless. This is nothing new.

Travis looks at their joined hands, only more proof that this is a crazy stupid idea because they can't even _touch_,for god's sake, but he bites back a foolish grin and just nods a little. "Yeah. Okay."

It doesn't matter that Wes is dead, that Travis can never touch him, that he can only exist in their house or beside Travis's badge.

It doesn't matter if the only relationship they ever have is that of perpetual housemates, and anymore more only exists in Travis's dreams.

Travis spent almost half a year alone, in an empty house, and he said he was fine but it was simply getting by. He doesn't want to do that anymore.

Wes is here, and that's enough. Everything else is just extra; they can work out the rest later.

**OOOO**

**Really, this was supposed to be cute and short. I have no idea what happened.**

**This was my first time really trying to write a slow-building romance.**

**This is absolutely my longest fic to date, and I would love to hear what you thought about it. Reviews and constructive criticism are always welcome.**

**Until next time~!**


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